Sherlock Holmes:  The Calendar Challenge
by Catherine Spark
Summary: Set up by Hades Lord of the Dead and Spockologist.  We each get a daily challenge, contributed by the authors and picked at random, to write about in the run up to, and immediate aftermath of, Christmas. Begins today, December 1st. Ends at New year.
1. Chapter 1

**EVERGREEN – 1****st**** December**

"No, Doctor Watson, I will not permit you to bring a live tree into the living room! I never did approve of the practice. No, Mr Holmes, I am quite certain that not everybody does it. If everybody did it what do you suppose would happen to all the forests? I would have thought with a mind like yours that would have been obvious. Exactly. You and Doctor Watson leave enough of a mess for me to clean up as things are, and to have to pick individual needles out of the carpet would really be too much! Besides, how would you water it? Where would its roots grow? The whole idea is just nonsense. Yes, I give my full blessing for you to engage in all other Christmas activities, early as it may be, but not the tree."

-/-/-

"Watson? Come with me…We have a mission to complete."

"Where are we going?"

"Down to Blandford Street. I've found the perfect tree."

"Really, Holmes. Mrs Hudson said no…"

"I assure you she will never know…I have it all worked out."

"That is immoral, Holmes."

"Exercise faith, Watson."

-/-/-

"I fail to see how it would be possible to conceal one of these from Mrs Hudson…"

"Ah, but we could hide a _part _of one."

"Whatever are you talking about?"

"The jack knife from my mantelpiece. Just sometimes I am glad the majority of people cannot walk into a room and immediately notice that something is different."

"I still can't see how a jack knife will help. You would need something far bigger and sharper than that to make an impact on one of those monoliths…"

"Observe, my dear Watson. We don't need to make an impact on the main trunk, merely on one of the branches. I cut it like so…and there you have it!"

"Is that going to be our Christmas tree?"

"And why not? We can place it in a saucer, anchored by candle wax. It needs no decorations. It is perfection in itself."

"And should its needles dry out before Christmas, we can simply take another cutting!"

"Exactly, Watson! Nobody loses out, and we remain in-keeping with a burgeoning tradition!"

-/-/-

"Where can we put it? Do you really suppose she will mind a mere cutting?"

"Perhaps we can put it into something."

"Do you mean something like a trophy cabinet?"

"Exactly. Only a trophy cabinet would be entirely inappropriate for the size of it."

"Perhaps we could make shift?"

"What do you mean?"

"How about one of your test tubes for example, corked up."

"By Jove…what a good idea, Watson!"

"Thank you. So you don't mind sacrificing a test tube for the festive season?"

"Not at all. I have amassed far too many, and some inevitably break anyway."

-/-/-

"There."

"Splendid. I think we have managed to have our cake and eat it, Holmes."

"Yes, it is in the house but not of it."

"The salt in the bottom was a particularly pretty touch. As was daubing the leaves with mercury."

"It is rather fetching, isn't it? The beads on the branches look like tiny silver baubles. And the salt gives a pleasing feeling of snow and winter."

"Where shall we put it?"

"On the windowsill, where the sunlight can reflect off the salt crystals and baubles and make them sparkle."

-/-/-

"Watson?"

"Yes Holmes?"

"I don't think we thought this through. The test tube can't stand up on its own due to its rounded bottom."

"Why not put it in a test tube rack then?"

"But I might need that rack. I'm planning a highly intricate experiment involving the study of tea leaves."

"Surely that is a little far-fetched even for detection?"

"Ah, I assume you are referring to the alleged practice of tea leaf reading? No no, you misunderstand me! When I say that tea leaves are important, I mean that everybody has their preferred brand and type of tea. To be able to differentiate between different tea leaf residues may help to deduce who was present in a particular venue, who drank from which cup, and who knew the most about their friends' habits. If I had written this monograph before that case involving the Hertfordshire poisoner, I might not have made as many blunders as I did."

"Well, if you are examining tea leaves, they're not dangerous, and I presume you don't need exact measurements. Why not just use tumblers?"

"That may indeed work. Thank you, dear fellow!"

"A pleasure."

-/-/-

"Hmmm."

"What?"

"I can't help thinking, the test tube is still more prominent to the eye than the actual tree."

"You're right."

"What if we fill the entire rack with test tube trees?"

"That would look very picturesque, yes. Do you have test tubes to spare for that?"

"If I use tumblers instead of test tubes for the tea leaf study then yes – I shan't be needing them until after Christmas, at which point I can clean them out for use."

"Excellent. To Blandford street!"

-/-/-

"There. Now it's a miniature forest."

"I wonder what Mrs Hudson will say? She forbade a Christmas tree…and now we have six of them!"


	2. Chapter 2

**HUMAN CENTIPEDE**

Uh ay Hoe ah I ere aw-ih ee-a uh ih-uh I ih Er-a-ee. Ee a ee ih-eh-ih-ay-ing a aa oo ai-ed oo a een aaa a-aw ee-I a oh a-ee-ih oh-en eh-uh. Aw a aw aw oo a. Ee a aw uh ai. I-a-ee ee eh a aa oo eh ee ah uh aw-eh a I el uh. Ee aw a aw-uh oo ai-eh oo a a uh-uh-aw aw-eh-aw aw a-a-aw-ee. A uh I ee eee ai eh-uh. Ee ay uh ai ih uh aw-ee, ai-ih ee ee-eh I oo eh ih aw-eh-aw. Ih aw-eh aw ee-aw Hoe ah I uh a ih-ih oi a oo ee uh ih uh-aw. Eh ee ai oo I aw aw-ee-I-ed. Hoe a-I aw oe oo I ai a aw I a oo a-aw ih ai ee oi-eh, oe-ih uh-uh ih eh uh. Aw I oe uh-uh-a ih I Hoe uh-uh ai eh-ee-ih! Ai-ee ee ih uh aw-ee ih oo uh-uh-ee-aa-aw, uh ee aa ih-ih oo! Ai-ee ee ih eh-a-a ee ih-eh ee ih uh-ih. I ou ee-en Eh-a oo a ee IH uh-ih!

One day Holmes and I were walking near the river Rhine in Germany. We had been investigating a man who claimed to have been dragged along beind a boat carrying stolen treasure. All had not gone to plan. We had lost our trail. Finally we met a man who said he had some knowledge that might help us. He was a doctor who had, claimed to have a wonderful collection of anatomy exhibits. At the time he seemed safe enough. He made us wait in the lobby, saying he needed time to set his collection. It wasn't long before Holmes and I heard a hissing noise and knew we were in trouble. When we came to I was horrified. Holmes' backside was sown to my face and all I can do now is make these noises, hoping someone will help us. What I don't understand is why Holmes doesn't say anything! Maybe he thinks the story is too unbelievable, but we are living proof! Maybe he is embarrassed he didn't see it coming. I doubt even Lestrade would have seen THIS coming!


	3. Chapter 3

**THE LABEFIED WAMBLER**

_A/N As is probably evident, one-sided dialogue is one of my favourite ways of telling a story. I think it's because I find beginnings really difficult, and with one-sided dialogue one can just launch in. This prompt consisted of two words and definitions from Sui Generis Paroxysm - Wamble: To stagger or move in a wobbling manner, and labefy: To weaken or impair._

-/-/-

"You see, Holmes? This is what happens when you get too engrossed in a case involving a wedding ring hidden in one of the bottles in a batch of beer, and take it upon yourself to investigate every public house that accepted a bottle from that batch. You go undercover and have a pint of beer at every single one potentially involved by way of avoiding suspicion. Consequently you then become labefied by alcohol, deduce the adultery of the wife of the seven-foot tall, off-duty bodyguard, rely upon your boxing skills which have become non-existent due to the excessive drink clouding your judgement (which you also deny), and I have to patch you up before we make our way back to Baker Street, me trying in vain to persuade a cab to give us a lift, and you wambling vacantly by my side! And you never learn either – you've always forgotten by the morning! If the Strand gets hold of this…I don't know, if it wasn't for my certainty that you'd somehow get yourself killed, I might have given up on you and found a place of my own. My writings and practice are more than established. No, no, don't cry, of course I wasn't being serious. Alright Holmes, I'm sorry. Nearly there now…"

-/-/-

SPLASH

"There. That's sobered you up. It is a pity about the carpet, but it should be dry by the morning with no lasting damage. I only hope the same can be said for you, my dear Holmes."

KNOCK KNOCK.

"Hello? Of course, I'm sorry, how much do we owe you in damages? Will this cover it? Yes, yes I quite understand. Is the gentleman alright now? I'm most glad to hear it. Holmes? He should be fine after a good long sleep. I can assure you it will never happen again. Married? No, no…all such emotions are abhorrent to him! Me? Engaged. Inside a bottle? Wh…Great heavens! Thank you, thank you indeed! I shall inform Mr Holmes the moment he awakes! Between you and me you have saved his reputation – I hope it will be a strong lesson to him for the future. Goodbye and goodnight!

-/-/-


	4. Chapter 4

_From mrspencil - Holmes needs Watson's assistance, but he cannot get his usual locum to cover his practice, what does he do?_ _Thanks to Hades for helping me with the plot for this_

_-/-/-_

Up until the late afternoon it had been a frankly mundane day at my practice. There had been the occasional virus-ridden victim, and I had prescribed menthol crystal steam treatments and bed rest. One mother and her small child had come in because her child had eaten several petals from her prized orchid. The child could not have been healthier. It was plump, with a pink tinge to the cheeks, and periodically throughout the consultation it would kick its feet in the air and give me wide, toothless grins. The mother of the child kept asking: "But you're sure he is going to be alright? Are you _sure_?" I patiently reassured her repeatedly that the child was in no danger, and eventually recommended a dose of camomile tea, since she was so obviously looking for either advice or treatment.

I lunched at my club, before returning in the afternoon. The waiting room was empty, so I sat down to complete my paperwork – an arduous undertaking at the best of times. Accompanying Holmes on his cases and then subsequently publishing my accounts leaves me with little time and energy for paperwork, and I had built up rather a backlog. In fact, it was worse because Anstruther had succumbed to the seasonal flu and I, in payment for the many times he had taken on my duties, was taking his practice for him whilst he recuperated at home.

Halfway through the afternoon there was an urgent banging on the door, and a familiar high, strident and strangely out-of-breath voice called my name. "Watson! A moment of your time if you will!" It was with great regret that I had, earlier on that day, declined his request for my assistance at the culmination of a robbery case he had been working on, and so although I had declined in order to engage in work-based matters, I opened the door readily. What I found was rather startling. Holmes and Mrs Hudson, both pink in the face, were panting, and lying on the floor was the huge, unconscious mass that was Mycroft Holmes.

"Bring him in," I said, and together we heaved and huffed him into the room. It was beyond our power to lift him onto the examining table, so he lay on the floor, looking rather like a beached whale. Mrs Hudson fetched a pillow, which Holmes placed under his head, and I loosened his shirt collar.

"What on Earth happened to him?" I asked.

A slightly embarrassed glance passed between the two of him.

"Well," Holmes said, "Since you were unable to assist me, Mrs Hudson kindly offered her services. I was initially sceptical I must admit, but she demonstrated excellent analysis skills, and an ability to sort the unimportant from the important when making observations, giving me, in effect, and extra pair of eyes. But I fear she will never have your natural ability of keeping a cool head in the moment of attack."

"I am intrigued," I said, as I applied a compress to the rapidly growing bruise on the back of Mycroft Holmes' head. "I pray, tell me more."

Holmes cleared his throat. "As you know I had been tracking the thief who stole that most exquisite medieval Cathedral painting from the National Gallery. I had reasoned that since he did not wish to attract attention he would hardly stay at a hotel for the night, and that he could not get far carrying such a painting. I therefore asked the gallery staff who had been in since the robbery, and as I asked them in the morning, only the gallery staff had arrived, and they use a separate door. Upon examining the road outside the public door, I found the wheel-marks of a very particular type of hansom. I followed them to a small holiday house, which told me that he did not plan to stay long. Upon checking his letter box I found an urgent letter with a man's name on it. The name was French, and the writing was in a Latanic hand with a French stamp. Returning to France would involve a train journey to a harbour, so yesterday I visited all the major stations in London and managed to obtain his booking details. He was due to catch his train at three in the afternoon today. This is the point at which I sought Mrs Hudson's kind assistance.

"After an early lunch we stationed ourselves, along with Inspector Lestrade, outside the thief's only door, concealed behind some shrubs that framed the doorsteps. Presently a man came out carrying a painting. Mrs Hudson has excellent reactions – better even than mine, and she hit the man in the head by throwing a potted plant. It must have hit surprisingly hard, as you can now see. Unfortunately it was only afterwards that I was able to introduce her to my brother. Lestrade ventured into the house and found the man bound and gagged, presumably by Mycroft. The thief was promptly arrested, and Lestrade left Mrs Hudson and I to bring my brother to you following his unfortunate accident."

Mrs Hudson looked shamed. I caught that impish twinkle in Holmes' eye, and saw his shoulders quiver. Then I was seized by the mirth of the situation and suddenly we were quite unable to control our laughter, and broke out into a simultaneous roar. Mrs Hudson, who had been watching us with a shamed expression, saw the funny side as well and began to giggle. It was at this point that Mycroft opened his eyes. "What on Earth could be amusing about a situation like _this_?" he enquired grumpily. "Help me up, dammit." Holmes, still chuckling, grasped his brother by the arm and steadied him as he stood up groggily. He rounded on Mrs Hudson. "I saw you throw the plant pot. Don't you suppose you'll get away with it."

"Well really, Mycroft!" Holmes admonished him. "You have very little to be annoyed about, in a broader sense. We captured our criminal which we could not have done without your timely assistance; we returned the picture to its proper home and you have sustained no lasting damage from an honest mistake on the part of my landlady!"

"I just thank the Lord that it's all over. Don't expect my help again. I give you cases, you solve them. Now where's a cab?" Mycroft gave me a cursory nod, before wobbling out of the room. Mrs Hudson, eager to make up for her mistake, went with him to make sure he didn't fall.

Holmes and I were alone in my office.

"You really should pay the owner of the house for damages to her potted plant," I said.

Again, Holmes tried to suppress his boyish mirth, and again he failed, and again the laughter was contagious. "Really Holmes, it is wrong to laugh so!" I told him.

"What else can one do? You're doing it too," Holmes spluttered. "Surely it's better to laugh than to cry over something which has now passed?"

"That is true," I acknowledged. "I really can't leave you to it, can I?"

"To what?"

"Your cases," I said.

"You cannot," he agreed. "I have tried to tell you on several occasions how indispensable you are, and how much I value your skills. If you would only rate your own abilities a little higher these things might not happen!"

I was about to answer, when a familiar looking woman came running into the room and plonked her perpetually happy baby on my desk. "Doctor Watson," she sobbed, "I think he's swallowed a segment of my best cactus!"


	5. Chapter 5

**A NICE CHRISTMAS STORY FOR CHILDREN**

_A little late, but it's here. Prompt from sagredo - Professor Moriarty and Colonel Moran purchase Christmas gifts for one another. Are they macabre or innocuous? Written in the style of an old Andy Pandy episode, so imagine this all being sung/narrated by __Vera McKhechnie, who did the voiceover for the original 'Andy Pandy', and 'Watch with Mother'._

Moriarty and Colonel Moran

La la laaaa la laaa laaa

Come to play whenever they can

Laaa lalala laaaa.

Hello, children! Today is a very special day. Do you know what day it is today? That's right, it's Christmas day. And do you know what happens on Christmas day? Of course you do – everybody gives each other presents! I wonder what Colonel Moran and Professor Moriarty have got for each other? Shall we call them?

Colonel Moran! Professor Moriarty!

They don't seem to be answering. Let's see if we can find them.

There they are! They were so busy arranging the presents ready for opening that they didn't hear us! Colonel Moran, Professor Moriarty, the children are here! That's right, Professor Moriarty is waving. Aren't you going to wave too, Colonel Moran? No…no he's too busy opening his present to wave. What a greedy little Colonel. I wonder what it is?

Oh look children! It's a lovely bottle of champagne! How nice. Why don't you get a glass and a corkscrew and have a drink of it, Colonel? And remember to get a glass for Professor Moriarty – he should have some too. Oh, just for you? Very well. That's right, pull! Harder! Harder! Oh – oh look children he got a fright when the cork popped out! Isn't he funny? Careful not to spill it. A toast – to Christmas! Oh he's having a long drink. It must be very special champagne. He seems to be enjoying it.

We know a song about drinking fizzy alcohol, don't we children. Shall we sing it together?

Tiny bubbles in the wine,

Make me happy

Make me feel fine.

Tiny bubbles make me warm all over

With a feeling that I'm gonna love you til the end of time.

Isn't that a lovely song? Why don't we sing it again, and now you know it, you can sing along too!

Tiny bubbles in the wine,

Make me happy

Make me feel fine.

Tiny bubbles make me warm all over

With a feeling that I'm gonna love you til the end of time.

Oh dear. Colonel Moran doesn't look very well at all. Maybe the wine had gone bad? He'd better check the bottle. Oh children look – it was poisoned. I do hope he's alright. And now he's being sick. That's good. I expect it's get the poison out of his tummy. He seems a bit unsteady…oops! I think you'd better go to bed, Colonel and have a little rest after that. Off you go. Goodbye! Be careful that Professor Moriarty doesn't try and do anything to you while you sleep – he _is _in a funny mood today!

Now I wonder what the Colonel has got for Professor Moriarty? I think Professor Moriarty had better be careful, don't you children? Oh but those don't look dangerous! It's just a pair of boots. Lovely boots too. Are you going to try them on, Professor? That's right, one on each foot. Oh…silly Professor! Can you see what he's done, children? He's put them on the wrong feet! Try again, that's right. There now. Don't they look smart! What's that? They hurt? Well you'd better take them off then, hadn't you? Children, look – his feet have gone. It must have been concentrated hydrochloric acid. Where _did _he get it from I wonder? Look at him hobbling along! Perhaps he needs to go to bed as well?

And there they are asleep in their beds. Don't they look peaceful? I think we'd better leave them for now, hadn't we?

Time to go home, time to go home,

La la la la la la laaa lalalaaaa

Time to go home, time to go home,

Nobody's waving goodbye. Goodbye. Goooodbyyyyye.

It's time to go home anyway. But we'll come and play another day. Goodbye children. Goodbye. Goodbye.


	6. Chapter 6

**THE GALLOWAY GHOST**

_I'll admit, this is a slight cheat. It's the second Sherlock Holmes fan fiction I ever wrote (the first being 'Holmes from Home'). That was back when I was still so obsessed with the original canon that I wanted to be as purist as possible. That has changed somewhat now, but I'm still quite proud of it. But you be the judge. It seemed to fit Spockologist's prompt: "Haunted House"._

When I entered the living room of 221B Baker Street my friend Sherlock Holmes was smoking and pacing around the room in a tense, agitated manner. He waved me into my usual chair, silently offered me a cigarette and resumed his pacing for several minutes. Finally he snatched a telegram from the table and thrust it in my general direction with a snort of disgust.

"_Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes_," it read, "_I live in a large house in Galloway, Scotland, and have read with great interest the account of your investigation into the case of the 'Sussex Vampire'. I would be most obliged to you if you would investigate the extraordinary and traumatic events concerning the house 'ghost'. I shall call at three O'clock this afternoon to elaborate. Yours, Mrs Emeline Grahams_."

"You see, Watson?" he ejaculated bitterly, collapsing into his chair and twitching his foot in annoyance. "You see what happens when you investigate such cases? And when _you _publish them under such names! I will not have our agency turned into a clinic for delusional imbeciles who believe in such paranormal nonsense!" He sunk into inactivity, his chin resting on his chest, glaring and puffing angrily on his pipe.

"Well, we have only a few minutes until she arrives," I said. "Remember, Holmes, the Hound of the Baskervilles. That was introduced to us by a man biased towards the supernatural, and turned out to be a remarkable case."

"Hmm. True as always, Watson," he murmured. "No data. No starting point." He threw a glance at the clock. Presently Mrs Hudson showed in a slim, dark-haired, brown-eyed woman wearing a blue silk dress, with white gloves and wearing a dainty black hat adorned with flowers. She carried a red bag. Her manner was a little apprehensive and yet self-assured. She smiled at Holmes and me – a smile which I returned and Holmes did not. "Mrs Grahams, please sit down," he said coldly. "I am inclined to think that you read entirely too much, for your eyes are strained and I see the corner of a book protruding from your handbag. Perhaps it is this that has turned your inclinations so irreparably towards the supernatural."

"Not at all Mr Holmes," she replied in a soft yet assertive voice. "You are right that I have been reading a lot recently, but that is because I have been attempting to find a rational explanation for the events in my home."

"I do not deal with the irrational," said Holmes turning away.

"The let me lay the concrete facts before you at least, and if you can see no natural cause then I will trouble you no further, but if you can find an explanation then I beg you to help me."

Holmes sighed resignedly. "I suppose it can do no harm." He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

"I married my husband nearly seven years ago. He made a fortune developing a rail company which he later sold and retired upon the profit. We moved into the manor soon after our marriage. It was sold with some furniture, and there was also a maid who had been in the house for many, many years, and who insisted on staying and working for us. We hadn't the heart to move her out, for she dearly loved the place and had no family of her own. Besides, she works well with the other staff and, although quiet, is courteous enough.

The troubles attributed to the house 'ghost' have been going on for several years. One servant claimed she saw the figure of a person standing in the garden one night. Another said she heard footsteps. We interviewed everyone in the house, and the footsteps could not have been made by any of them. There were no signs of intrusion – no foreign tracks, the windows and doors were securely fastened and the locks showed no scratches characteristic of a forced entry.

We tried to carry on as usual, but the sightings and reports kept coming. Sometimes it was just the feeling of a presence, other times objects had been moved, and occasionally there was a face at a window.

Finally, one of the servants managed to describe this face. It was male, deathly white with dark, sunken eyes, thin, white lips, fair hair and a short beard. Its face bore an expression of terrible sorrow and hopelessness.

"I did not take these reports too seriously. After all, stories tend to breed more stories of a progressively fantastic and embellished nature, and servants really are quite naïve and superstitious in general, especially young female ones. However, I have recently had an experience that even I cannot explain. I was retiring to bed and was passing up the stairs when I saw, on the top landing, a figure in a white gown. Its face exactly matched the description of the face at the window. It held a candle burned down about three quarters in one hand and was barefoot. I hurried up the stairs after it, but it turned on its heal and silently fled through the door into a disused and unfurnished spare room. I hurried up the stairs after it. Mr Holmes, on opening the door I found nobody there. There is one window, and that was shut and locked. The door I had come through was the only door into the room. There was no furniture in the room and no places where any person could hide.

"It was then that I heard my husband in the doorway behind me. He laughed at my startled expression, and asked me what I was doing. I told him everything. "Why, it is late in the evening and everybody gets apprehensive at that time, especially in a large house with all these stories! I expect it was a trick of your imagination, coupled perhaps with an effect from the lights flickering on the walls. Forget all about it and come to bed. We've been here seven years and no harm has befallen us." To please him I said no more on the subject, but I cannot sleep easily until I know the truth. Mr Holmes, I am merely applying your methods by exhausting all physical possibilities before falling back on the supernatural. I will go to a doctor and then to a priest if you cannot help me, but you are the man who can find the answer if anyone can."

This last was spoken as a contained, yet desperate plea. Holmes looked hard at her, tapped his pipe on the arm of his chair, and raised his eyebrows. "Well if it is true that there are no marks and no signs of forced entry then it is certainly unique in my experience. Have you kept a record of these events?"

She opened her bag, took out an armful of papers and handed them to Holmes, who thumbed through them. Our client explained further: "Dates, times, names, locations and descriptions. My husband disapproved, but I made a policy that any staff member experiencing 'supernatural' occurrences was to fill out such a report."

She looked at Holmes expectantly. He looked at her hard. "You have done exceptionally well," he said at last. "I should be ashamed if I could not make something of this case. Yes, I will take it I think. I will send a telegram letting you know when to expect us, and Watson and I will spend a few days investigating at your house."

"And your fee? How is the matter usually settled?"

"I shall need you to recompense me for the expenses incurred, but aside from that the satisfactory completion of this case will be its own reward. Good day, Mrs Grahams."

He closed the door behind her and turned to me. "Quite remarkable – the woman and the case," he declared.

Two days later we took the train up to Scotland. The morning was watery and wreathed in mist, but the sun broke hesitantly through the greyness. Holmes thought aloud. "I should like to know who this maid is and why she was so insistent on remaining in the house all these years. She may be a crucial link. If there is something supernatural, why would it confine itself to the house and its grounds? What does the house hold for it? And if there is a man-made explanation then the servants are either lying or its origins go back to the previous house owners, in which case this maid interests me. So you see my dear fellow, supernatural or physical, the key lies in the house and its history. And one other point – the sightings and sounds in these reports are not random. They are far more numerous in the east-facing wing of the house – the quieter wing. Not one single outdoor sighting has taken place in the daytime, although that is hardly surprising. That is as far as I can ascertain at present without running the risk of theorising in front of my data and prejudicing my investigation."

The flat, green farmland began to undulate and soon we were gliding through valleys and forests, crossing rivers over bridges. We reached the station at midday and were met by a carriage which took us to the house. The house was enormous and pale grey with a veranda, an all-round balcony and double doors. The gardens had numerous gravel paths, circular flower beds and symmetrical yew trees planted along the main drive-way. We were shown in and were rather apologetically offered a cold lunch. To my surprise Holmes agreed without hesitation. "Might we make the acquaintance of the house staff?" he asked. While we ate he exercised that curiously charming and ingratiating side of his character by chatting to the three female servants. The oldest was markedly quieter, but laughed readily, asked questions of Holmes and was in every way polite and considerate. The house was over two hundred years old, and until it was bought by the Grahams it had lain empty for some years.

The story of the house was not a very happy one. The previous owners had been an immensely rich couple called Barrister, who had two sons. Their mother died when the twins were babies, and the father had engaged a maid to take care of the children. This maid was the one still working at the house. When the brothers grew up the father, who had by this time developed a terminal illness, left the property to the brothers. They entered into possession of the house upon his death, and for a while this all worked out splendidly. Unfortunately the older brother was lost at sea in 1866. The younger brother kept the property on by himself, living in it alone, but in 1876 he was mysteriously and brutally murdered – the cause of death being a gunshot to the head. The case had been inconclusive and the murderer was never found. The house had then lain empty for some years, maintained by the maid, until the Grahams moved in seven years ago.

After lunch Holmes made an excuse and we went into the garden with the mistress of the house. My companion walked slowly, eyebrows drawn and his head bent low, looking for tracks and other clues. Occasionally he asked a question about certain markings and tracks. Finally, he dismissed the mistress, who went back inside. He sat on a bench and his keen eyes darted from plant to plant, object to object. "This case is odd, Watson," he said, slowly. "It almost seems as if there is too much data, rather than not enough. We have two separate stories to deal with, one of which may be entirely irrelevant. We have the history of the house prior to the Grahams, and we have the problem of the so-called ghost. Are they connected? They must be. But if so then how? Any yet there are no tracks that cannot be accounted for. That maid, the one that kept the house on. What did you make of her?"

"She seemed a little quiet, but pleasant enough."

"Hmmm. I would like another talk with her in private. Notice how she never volunteered information even though she participated in conversations involving other people with genuine ease. That stirs my instincts, Watson. If she is keeping a secret, then the fact that she can happily watch others talk so freely about the household suggests she knows that they are certainly ignorant of the details. Which in turn suggests that such a secret involves the house's past. But I should like to talk to her alone before I conclude anything or theorize any further. Meanwhile, let us look around the house itself."

We were given a grand tour by the old maid Helen. After showing some initial interest, Holmes's face began to take on a listless expression. Several times throughout the tour I saw him stifle a yawn or fidget impatiently with his watch chain. It wasn't until we were shown into a very old, dusty, cobwebbed loft that his interest returned. He swept a quick glance around the room before staring fixedly at the floor. "Somebody has been in here several times," he remarked, pointing at footmarks in the dust.

"Oh, we've been meaning to turn this room into a guest room," Helen replied with a smile. "I've had the servants clear it out, and we'll be giving it a good clean in the next few days."

"I see," said Holmes. As we made our way downstairs, a new sense of urgency had come in to his face. "That was the room the mistress saw the ghost disappear into?"

For a second fearful expression seemed to flit across Helen's face, but she composed herself. "Yes. Some of those marks you saw on the floor were made by the mistress when she entered the room."

"Indeed…" he murmured.

Holmes would say nothing more of the case until the evening. In the mean time we took a walk over a hill path, from the top of which the sea could be seen. The hillside was crawling with rabbits, and sheep wandered up to us curiously, darting away as we drew close. We took dinner in our room, where Holmes updated me on the situation.

"The maid told us nothing but lies about that little room." he told me. "She may be a faithful servant but she lacks imagination and observation. Those foot marks for a start. There were only two types – a woman's shoe and a slipper. The story about the servants clearing out the room is also a lie – that room has always been unfurnished. There were no marks anywhere on the floor to suggest that things had been moved or dragged. What about her other claim that it was about to be cleaned up and turned into a guest room? I tested that claim. In the absence of the old maid I said to one of the other servant girls that I was sure it would make a lovely little guest room. I was met with a blank stare. "I suppose it would, Sir," she agreed, "Bit far away from the main house though". They have no knowledge of these plans, Watson. So what do you suppose that means?"

"I cannot imagine."

"Well, the number of footmarks in the dust suggests frequent activity. I would almost go as far as to say daily, or more probably nightly since the other servants clearly believe it to be disused."

"Then surely we should conceal ourselves in view of the door and keep vigil?"

"Excellent, Watson! Yes, now let me see…" He sprang up from his chair and I followed him in to the hallway. "Now, there is an alcove on each side of the wall in which the door to the room is situated." He pointed and I saw the alcoves, each filled by a plant pot in which grew slender-stemmed cactus plant. Holmes squeezed passed one of the cactus pots. "Yes," he reported, "There's room enough to stand behind the plant pot. It will be a most uncomfortable vigil though." He edged his way out again. "We will wait until the household has retired to bed, and then take up our places. And Watson? It wouldn't be a bad idea to take your revolver with you."

We joined the master, mistress and old maid for supper in the drawing room. Holmes struck up a friendship with the master straight away, for the master had fenced for his university. They discussed tactics, footwork and foils. Soon they had agreed to a dual in the garden before we left. Presently the master and mistress made to retire, whereupon Holmes made an excuse and we returned to our rooms and waited. When the voices of the master and mistress had died away, the lights had been turned off and the footsteps and sounds of doors had ceased, Holmes and I crept to our hiding places. With some difficulty and not a little pricking I managed to fit myself in behind my cactus.

I shall never forget that long, agonising vigil. Because of the small space and the angle of the cactus and plant pot, I had to stand completely still and fully to attention. Any slump in my posture led to pricking from the cactus. Holmes, being so lean, undoubtedly had an easier time, though I cannot imagine that he was very comfortable either. After three hours my muscles were beginning to cramp severely, and I started to wonder whether I might have to, for the first time, let my friend down. Then at last there was a movement. I could not see Holmes but I could well imagine the rigidity of his features and the gleam of anticipation in his eye. Slowly, the light of a candle came into view and I pressed myself back against the wall. After a few seconds a figure appeared – the figure of Helen, the old maid. She carried a tray on which was placed a candle, a jug, a drinking glass and a plate bearing what looked like bread and cheese.

She passed by silently and through the door into the little room. I heard three quiet knocks, and then footsteps returning. When she passed by for the second time she carried only the candle. I edged slowly out of my hiding place. Holmes put his finger to his lips, then motioned me to be silent and, grasping my wrist, led me into the room and over to the far wall. He crouched down and straining my eyes I saw, by the light of the moon through the small window, the rectangular patch of disturbance in the dust where the tray had been placed.

"That is final," Holmes whispered in my ear. "She will come back in a few minutes to collect the tray and dishes. Meanwhile, let us investigate." He began a meticulous examination of the floor and walls. I wandered over to the window. It looked out onto the back of the garden – a sweeping green landscape peppered with shrubs and shaped flower beds. I glanced at the grass immediately below the window, and felt my blood run cold. I tapped Holmes on the shoulder and motioned him to come to the window. On the lawn stood a ghostly figure. It was thin and skeletal, and wore what appeared to be a deathly white night gown that trailed to its ankles. Its hair and beard were wild and long and its gaunt, sorrowful, alabaster face shone dreadfully in the moonlight.

I glanced at Holmes. He appeared to be momentarily shaken, before recovering himself. Seconds later the figure turned and disappeared from our view. "Well, that's our ghost," I muttered, letting my breath out in a sigh.

"Ghost?" Holmes chuckled softly, "No, no I think not." I glanced at my friend. His eyes were sparkling with suppressed excitement. "The game is up, my dear Watson," he whispered, "Would you be so kind as to stand by the door?" With that he laid his ear against the far wall and waited. I stationed myself in position beside the door. Suddenly I saw Holmes tense, step to the side and press his back flat against the wall. I copied him. Very quietly, he knocked three times. I stared as the space where he had been standing seemed to open outward and the ghostly figure we had seen in the garden emerged, holding the tray which had contained the food and drink. Holmes's own hand shot out and closed around the arm of the other with an iron grip, drawing the person into the centre of the room. The stranger's frightened eyes stared at me and then at Holmes, and the tray slipped to the ground with a crash.

Footsteps drew near, the door of the attic burst open and Helen the maid ran in. She stopped in shock. "What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, white with surprise. She tried to run, but I barred her way.

"You must not try to escape, Madam," said Holmes. "I am not the police. I was engaged by the mistress to investigate the doings of this fellow." He gestured at the 'ghost'. "You have lied and harboured a fugitive, but I know nothing of the story behind all this. Now you two, tell me quietly and truthfully what has been going on for so long. You both know the real story, and if you tell the truth I may be able to help you. If you try and deceive me I shall be forced to inform the police."

The maid's face was working in an agony of indecision, but the ghost spoke in a hollow, barely human voice. "I am only too glad to tell all at last. Twenty years of fear," he said, "Ten of imprisonment."

"He never did any harm, Sir," cried the maid, "He was trying to protect himself!"

Holmes motioned us all to sit on the floor in a circle. He kept his grip on the 'ghost', and I restrained the maid. "Tell me who you are and how you came to be hiding here."

The 'ghost' drew breath. "I am Mr William Charles Barrister. The younger twin of Harold Reginald Barrister."

Holmes looked at the housekeeper in surprise. "_Identical_ twins?"

"As like as two peas."

"Why did you keep this from me? This was important!"

"I was wrong – I see that now. Had I confided in you, you would have listened and sympathised. But how could I know that?"

"Madam I cannot guarantee that I will sympathise."

"But you _will_. I _know_ you will!" she cried, passionately. "Tell him, Master Barrister!"

"Our father left the entire estate to me, the younger brother. My twin, who was always the more hot-tempered of us, was furious. He felt that as the oldest of us the estate should have been his birth-right."

"Esau and Jacob," muttered Holmes.

"Exactly, Mr Holmes. The medical costs of our father's final illness severely depleted the family inheritance. I needed money to run the place, and my brother would not leave the home he felt should be his by right, and so he was placed in the degrading position of paying me rent.

"He knew he was in my power, for if he ill-treated me I could reveal his private humiliation to everyone. I would never have betrayed my brother in such a way, but his silent anger fuelled paranoia. He felt trapped. That trap was to kindle a fire of passionate hatred for me in his heart. I soon began to fear for my life, and I eventually determined to have him out of that house. My brother must have got wind of my plans to evict him, for one night I was up late reading, and he crept into my room with a heavy iron poker. He sprang at me and we struggled together. I managed to wrench the poker from his hand and throw it across the room. It was then that Helen appeared in the doorway holding my revolver. It was loaded and primed and she was pointing it at my brother. The effect was startling. He became as quiet as a lamb and we hurried him through to the living room. You did not know, for you had no cause to investigate until now, but the book case in the library immediately below this room opens into a small, secret hiding place. It is built so that it is easy to get in to it from the outside and impossible to get out of it from the inside. We imprisoned him there. We told the authorities that my brother had set off on a trip to the continent, and had been lost overboard. He was un-gagged three times a day for meals, and these were always taken to him with a loaded gun preceding.

It was torture, Mr Holmes, torture to carry on this way, but Helen and I somehow managed together for ten long, miserable years. Why did I not give my brother away? Firstly I was afraid that if he were to escape from prison alive he would return to the house with an even greater desire for revenge. But secondly, I have only once been separated from my brother, and I cannot describe the feeling. It is like being ripped in two. I feared him, but I feared separation from him more. What neither of us knew though, was that the enclosure had once been a giant fireplace, with a chimney leading upwards. When the house was expanded, just before my parents bought it, the fireplace had been turned into a secret passage, connecting the enclosure behind the bookcase with the enclosure behind that wall in here. Whereas people could get into but not out of the space behind the bookcase, they can get out of, but not into the space behind the wall. A through-way, you might say, disguised by a false ceiling in the book-shelf enclosure. It was this that my brother discovered after ten years. When he burst from the wall that night he was no longer human. After ten years of darkness, solitude and silence, all his instincts and behaviours had turned animal. We both heard the roar and armed ourselves. He flew at us both with murder in his eyes, gripped my gun and attempted to turn it on me. In the struggle a shot was fired and by sheer Providence it hit my brother rather than myself or Helen. My brother fell to the ground and died.

I had feared separation, but my fears were groundless. I felt lighter than I had done in all my adult years. I can't tell you the joy, the euphoria, the utter relief we both experienced looking at his lifeless body. But we knew we would be seen as murderer and accomplice. We had to do something, and Helen had the idea. I would hide in the space behind the attic – the space my brother had discovered, until the enquiries died down. I hid there for three years, until the case was closed. She kept up the house, brought me food all that time, and kept me company. Because we were identical and my older brother had already been reported as being lost at sea, the murdered man was identified as me and buried in my name. To my horror, the house was bought and moved into before we could get away. I was now well and truly stuck. Helen managed to win the trust of these people, and has continued to bring me food each night. She always makes slightly more than is needed and takes the extra portions to me. That has been my miserable existence for the last ten years. As you see it has been far from easy. Now you must judge whether I am a criminal or a martyr."

We sat in silence for some minutes. Holmes's head was bowed. I finally broke in with a question. "But the sightings? You came out at night. Why?"

Mr William Barrister looked at me with eyes full of emotion. "I couldn't bear to be shut in the dark, day in, day out. I saw what it did to my brother. I have not felt the sunlight on my skin for ten years, but I have had moonlight. I needed to feel the breeze and the grass under my feet, to see the hills and the sky and the stars and hear the leaves of the trees rustling and the bleating of the sheep. It has been those night wanderings that people have witnessed, and which have preserved in me some vestige of the human being I once was. Now," he said, turning to Sherlock Holmes. "Tell me truthfully Mr Holmes, have I done wrong? How will the courts look upon me?"

My friend did not reply straight away. He seemed to be struggling with a tangle of inner thoughts. Finally he raised his eyes to meet Mr Barrister's and patted him on the arm with a rare display of sympathy. "They will not condemn you, Mr Barrister. They _cannot. _You acted in self-defence – you have a witness who can testify to that. As to the imprisonment of your brother, you have already paid for that and served an equal term. I will do everything in my power to see that justice is done for you."

"God bless you Mr Holmes!" he cried, grasping my friend by the arm.

"I must confess I have been very clumsy in my investigation of this case, Watson," my friend told me the next afternoon, as we sat in the garden. "I did not imagine that the brothers were identical, since nobody mentioned it. Had I asked about the brothers more we would have taken a big shortcut, for identical twins and conspiracies often go together. Nor did I enquire enough about the father's will when I heard he had a terminal illness. I am sorry to say that there was a large element of luck involved in bringing this case to a successful conclusion, and therefore I beg you not to make a public chronicle of it. It cannot be instructive to anyone."

"You guessed then?"

"I never guess. I had a suspicion that somebody was hiding in a secret room as soon as Mrs Grahams mentioned that a figure had walked through a door and disappeared inexplicably. I verified the fact that this figure was living in the house by ensuring that there were no foreign tracks on the path. The garden path, as you see, is wide, gravelly and reaches all the way around the house. Had a person been coming in from the outside they would have been forced to walk across the gravel, leaving tracks. My suspicions deepened, but I still had not got the final links. They came in the shape of the room and Maid Helen's lies. From the fact that she was lying and everyone else in the house was telling the truth, I knew she was responsible for the house ghost. The mess of footprints concentrated near the far wall suggested to me a secret room with an entrance built into the wall. I did not know exactly who was being concealed, but I knew it was somebody associated with the previous house owners, and I knew it was somebody to whom Maid Helen was very emotionally attached. This was shown by the extraordinary tenacity and complete devotion she had shown over the years.

"Maid Helen unwittingly showed us how to reach this person by knocking three times and leaving the tray behind. I knew she would have to come back to collect the empty tray, and so, after listening at the wall and making sure that the 'ghost' had returned to his room after his night wanderings, I imitated the signal, thus luring him out."

"Well it is certainly an extraordinary story."

"Twins, ghosts, secret passages, conspiracy and a confidant – all old, my dear Watson."

"But Holmes, the courage of this woman, the devotion she showed over all those years. She gave over her life to him, and for what reward? She risked being arrested, but she did it anyway for her friend. Surely that is rather singular?"

He contemplated. "Hmm…yes. You are right – that is more unusual." He tapped his long fingers thoughtfully. "Not quite unique though. I believe I have witnessed that level of devotion to a friend once before."

"When was that?"

He stood up, smiling. "Watson, if I am not mistaken that is Mr Thomas Grahams coming out of the house. Come – there is a fencing match to win before we leave for our train."


	7. Chapter 7

**SILENCE**

_Prompt: 'Silence' from Deb Zorski_

For four nights Holmes had been working on a case involving a ratchet, a prizewinning carrier pigeon and a stolen sapphire. It must indeed be difficult to observe and deduce when the key player in events travels by air. Holmes, after a period of intense research, had eventually hit upon an ingenious solution involving a metal ball bearing, a bag of corn, a compass, a cloud and a calligraphy pen.

Now as I attempt to fill in this most remarkable of cases, I have only just become aware of a peculiar difference in the atmosphere of the living room. The fire is burning, as usual. I am writing at my desk. Holmes is in his armchair.

Several things are amiss though. When Holmes reads he turns the pages almost like clockwork, and the regularity of that sound is missing. His deep breaths in and out, which signify that he is smoking, and the smell of tobacco are also absent. There is no violin playing. There are no clients calling. In fact, rather than his usual rather irregular, shallow breathing borne of intense concentration, the only sounds I hear besides my own are the crackling of the fire, and the faintest whisper of a breath through nostrils as Holmes sleeps.

The relief is enormous. This morning, his fourth without sleep, I could tell he was close to his limit. He had been talking very fast, moving jerkily and his face was taking on an almost translucent hue. The last time he had pushed himself to this point his nerves had given way, along with his physical strength and we ended up having to take time away in Cornwall in order for him to recover.

Therefore, the sound of silence, of much needed sleep…is music to my ears.


	8. Chapter 8

**TIME SHENANEGANS**

_Prompt from Hades Lord of the Dead: The characters in a chat room. _

**Watson:** Remarkable. This works like a typewriter, but I don't have to bash the keys nearly as hard.

_Watson is offline_

_Watson is online_

_Watson is offline_

**Holmes:** Hardly surprising. Once people invented hardware Moore's law came into effect which states that the number of transistors that can be cheaply placed on an integrated circuit doubles bi-annually. From there things have come on in leaps and bounds.

_Watson is online_

**Watson:** I missed all that, sorry.

**Holmes:** Scroll back

**Watson:** What do you mean 'scroll'?

**Holmes:** Use the mouse.

**Watson:** Have you taken leave of your senses?

**Holmes:** My dear Watson if you haven't read a single thing about computers I am frankly astonished that you have made it this far. The mouse is the hand-held device by which the cursor is manipulated.

_Watson is offline_

**Holmes:** Come now, don't take it in that way. In actual fact it is a compliment. You are a very apt practical learner.

_Watson is online_

_Watson is offline_

**Holmes:** Might I suggest that you consider re-setting your hub?

_Watson is online_

**Watson:** How do I do that?

**Holmes:** Simply look at the switches on the side and flick the one which has a picture of a puffer fish being fatally stabbed.

**Watson:** I'm sorry?

**Holmes:** It's unmistakable. A circle with a line going through the top.

**Watson:** Now that I _can_ find. A puffer fish being fatally stabbed confused me somewhat.

**Holmes:** It was a fair analogy, but I can see that confusion might arise. Especially in the technically illiterate.

**Watson:** How did you become so accomplished in such a short space of time?

**Holmes:** I googled 'windows PC' which is what this monitor screen says, went into Microsoft's help page, and when that had very little useful data I went onto Wikipedia and signed up to a few chat forums instead.

_Watson is offline_

**Holmes:** Has it worked? Maybe I frightened him away. It's a shame…they're such wonderful machines.

_Watson is online_

**Watson:** Hopefully that will solve the problem.

**Holmes:** Hopefully. Having said that, facebook is notorious for cutting off chats. Anyway, have a look at this. Just click on it and it should come up in a new tab.

http :/ en . Wikipedia . org / wiki / DNA _ profiling

And look, here's a video demonstration:

http : / www. youtube. com/ watch?v= cW0yPnGXFDU& feature=related

**Watson:** Holmes, this would appear to be some kind of…what did you call it? That's right…some kind of children's 'video'.

**Holmes:** OMG sorry, wrong tab. I meant this:

http :/ www. youtube. Com / watch?v= qZeYu76bOsQ

**Watson:** OMG?

**Holmes:** This link will explain everything:

http: / mistupid .com /I nternet/ chattalk. Htm

**Watson:** In that case, ROFL at the children's video link you sent by mistake.

**Holmes:** BRB

**Watson:** I know what that means now. I shall wait for you.

_Holmes is idle_

**Holmes:** I now have my pipe and my notebooks. I intend to take as much down as possible.

**Watson:** Holmes…do you suppose that is wise?

**Holmes:** Whatever do you mean?

**Watson:** I know very little about the organisation of time…but IMHO if these video clips about a certain fictional 'Doctor Who' are anything to theorise by, I would avoid messing with chronology.

**Holmes:** IDK, you may very well be right, MDW. I had not considered that.

**Watson:** Another thing. I've been reading these two links:

http : / en. Wikipedia . org / wiki / Smoking _ ban _ in _ England

en. Wikipedia . org/ wiki/ Smoke _ detector

…Both of which suggest it might be a wise move for you to put that pipe out (I can see it through the skype videolink) and make a hasty retreat.

**Holmes:** By Jove, you're right! Shall I meet you at the Macdonalds down the road then?

**Watson:** Certainly. Goodbye.

**Holmes:** Goodbye. It has been a privilege.

_Holmes is offline_

_Watson is offline_


	9. Chapter 9

_Prompt from _ _Sagredo: Have Holmes and Watson reminisce over Christmases past, and discuss the best gifts they've received. What does each man remember as the gift which meant most to him? I'm afraid I really struggled with this prompt, so I kind of let it inspire me, rather than followed it to the letter. I hope you don't mind, Sagredo!_

**HEARTS AND HAND PRINTS**

"Mr Holmes, you really must get this place sorted out before Christmas. There's no space for anything else in here!"

Mrs Hudson's comments were certainly fair. Aside from case-notes which had spilled out of their usual chest, Holmes owned a great many books (on a wide range of topics including the calls of .?docid=25550556mon city birds, tidal patterns throughout the world, geology and the physics of sound), and these were piled up around the window, the sides of the fireplace, my desk (much to my annoyance) and the door. On more than one occasion Mrs Hudson had, on entering the room or even extending an elbow too far out, caused a collapse. Worse still, Holmes would then become irritated in his own inner way, and in the absence of a case which took us out, the atmosphere at Baker Street would be ruined for the rest of the day.

"Mrs Hudson, I clearly recall organising my possessions six months ago," Holmes replied, without looking up.

"As I remember," I interjected, "You brought your box through and then we both got distracted by the remains of the Musgrave Ritual. The tidying was forgotten…"

"Don't touch that!" Holmes sprang up and snatched back a piece of paper Mrs Hudson had been holding. Holmes pocketed the piece of paper, and then sat down abruptly. His eyes took on a peculiar shine. For several minutes he sat absolutely still. Mrs Hudson, looking rather shaken, quietly exited.

At last Holmes gave me a brief glance, before looking away again. His hand came up to his mouth. His throat was working. I waited. Finally he cleared his throat.

"During my early years at college I would spend long periods in the library reading chemistry research papers and working out experiments based on the resarchers' findings. I used to stay late into the night, as the library was open until midnight and I enjoyed the absolute silence and tranquility that descended upon the place once the other students had returned to their rooms.

"There was a young lady who was the sister of one of the librarians – Rose. She had access to the library because of her sister, and she would sit and read literature classics and essays. She had the face and fingers of a musician, but I could tell from the indent between the fourth and fifth finger of each of her hands that she also rode horses. She wore plain clothes but she held herself regally. One day I was studying her and she saw me looking. She gave me a shy smile and I smiled back.

"From then on I became fascinated by Rose for rather more…subjective reasons. I would always sit on the couch in the library – there was a couch in each corner. The day after we smiled at each other she was sitting in a different chair. One nearer, but only very slightly nearer, to my couch. Once again she caught me looking and we exchanged a smile. So it went on: Each day she would be sitting slightly nearer and we would smile at each other. Good heavens – the things it did to my logic!

"On the last day before the Christmas break I entered the library to find her sitting on my couch. It would have been the height of rudeness after all that had occurred between us to have gone and sat somewhere different, so I sat down in a bit of a daze. We continued our reading, and after a while I realised that she was reading over my shoulder. When she noticed that I had seen her, she started to laugh, which made me laugh too. I read some of her book. It was hopelessly romanticised and unrealistic. How anyone could believe such a yarn I have no idea. Anyway, again we went back to our reading.

"Eventually the library was going to close, so we put our books away. For some reason it felt like the wrong thing to do to walk off without her when we were the only two people in the library, so I waited and we exited the building together. Outside, she spoke to me for the first time. "I shan't be here after today," she told me. "I'm moving away to Devon. I've been offered a secretary's position that I really can't turn down." I couldn't say a thing "Oh come, come," she said, taking my hand. "It needn't be goodbye. I shall give you my new address," and she took a piece of paper and a pencil from her bag, wrote it down and popped it into my coat pocket. "There," she said, stood on tiptoe and pecked me on the cheek. Then she was gone. In all the time we had seen each other I never said a word to her.

"I spent most of the holidays in my room, buried in my experiments. The next semester I was on my way to chapel and Victor Trevor's dog froze onto my leg. The events after that are recorded by you in "The Gloria Scott". As soon as I turned my interests to crime I banished all such feelings from my mind; emotions like are simply too damaging to one's logic."

He came out of his reverie, and his face recovered that mask-like impassivity that was customary to Holmes.

"You kept the piece of paper," I commented.

"Merely for posterity," he replied.

-/-/-

"Watson – you are a hypocrite," Holmes informed me, three days before Christmas. I looked up from my paper.

"How so?"

"I see your old papers piling up beside your chair. I see your useless trinkets crowding the mantelpiece, your boots are scattered in the hallway, your coat is draped over a chair at the dining table…I tidied my things. You should do the same."

"I use all of my things, Holmes. You have archives which you haven't used in years crowding out the place."

"You don't use any of these," Holmes indicated the ornaments on the shelf – ornaments that had been Mary's. I felt my old protectiveness creeping back as he approached the mantelpiece. We had divided it into two halves. One housed Holmes's mail and his cigar case. The other housed my memories of Mary. Although he was disapproving of such sentimentality, he was careful to keep the disapproval to himself and I also noticed him approach that side of the mantelpiece with more care than he did his own.

"What are these?" He had picked up a piece of paper from my side of the mantelpiece. I caught sight of a patch of ink, and before I could think properly I had sprang up from my chair and snatched it off him.

"What are these…?" Holmes looked confused for a moment, and then his face grew pale. He turned to look at me. I felt my throat twist as the tiny hand prints brought back memories of milky blue eyes, the tiny whorl of each ear, the fluff of blonde hair…

"Amelia Mary Watson," he read out, before placing a hand on my shoulder for a second.

I bowed my head. My lips were pursed, but a rogue tear still splashed off my nose onto the floor. Holmes and I both watched it soak into the carpet.

"Mary went downhill very fast," I said, through clenched teeth. "Consumption. Amelia followed not long afterwards."

Holmes nodded his understanding. "My sincere condolences," he told me, and then he left me to regain my composure.

We didn't speak of Amelia, or the prints, again after that. One day an elderly patient requested my services. I had sold my practice when I moved back to Baker Street, but she had been a good friend of Mary's, and her health had been deteriorating for some years. Consequently I was away for the whole day, as she lived out of town. By the time I got to her, she was unable to sit up. I made her comfortable with morphine and diuretics because her heart was failing. She was unable to speak loudly, but whispered her thanks. She insisted upon embracing me.

When I got home, I felt drained. Holmes was out. I hoped he hadn't taken on anything too dangerous in my absence – I knew as well as he that he needed another person to work in tandem with on such cases, however small my contribution. I fell into my armchair and rang for Mrs Hudson, who brought me hot coffee and a buttered muffin. I remember none of her kind words, but I do remember glancing at the mantelpiece and seeing the prints in a mahogany frame. I stood up wordlessly and went to investigate. There was a small gold plate on the bottom edge of the frame, with the engraving "Amelia Mary Watson", and the year of her life. I ran my finger over the engraving. It was cold to touch, and I could feel the indents under my fingers. "Did Holmes do this?" I asked.

"He thought it deserved better than to be left lying face down on the mantelpiece."

"I had no idea he could understand those sorts of attachments."

"Now Doctor, we both know he doesn't think like that. But you do. And he knows that." Mrs Hudson picked up the tray, and with a knowing little smile she disappeared, leaving me standing speechless by the framed prints, with a full heart.


	10. Chapter 10

_Prompt from Mrs Pencil: Holmes's School Report Aged 10_

**SHERLOCK HOLMES: SCHOOL REPORT 1864**

_**General Notes**_

Sherlock is a fascinating child to teach. He is certainly one of the brightest children to have ever come through our doors, but also one of the most reticent. I worry about his home life, as he rarely interacts with other children. As you already know his obsessiveness has led to mixed academic results, as well as problems with misbehaviour towards the other children during some lessons, particularly science. I feel that if Sherlock were given a concrete direction to follow, such as a family trade, his behaviour and concentration would improve, as he would know how to direct his talents. He would also be more able to find children who have common interests to him.

_**Mathematics**_

In this subject, Sherlock excels. He would benefit from private tutoring, as I believe he has a career in this area, should he want it. He has a good head for figures, particularly in trigonometry. His estimation skills are second to none. In fact, he has good judgement of proportions in general, and has told me it is as if there is a wall of colours in his head, with the colours being numbers, and different spectrums of colours representing interrelated patterns of numbers. I have only heard of this phenomenon until now, and it is rarely seen in children. It is widely recognised as a sign of mathematical genius. However, this also works against him in algebra, as mixing numbers and letters seems to confuse him – he would prefer to work solely with numbers when it comes to mathematics. I also wish he would volunteer his answers and questions more, as they are always thoughtful and often instructive.

_**English Literature**_

Sherlock is certainly one of the most eloquent pupils that I have ever had the pleasure of teaching. He has a lovely, soft, engaging speaking voice, which does him very well when required to present material to his classmates. However, it also means he is easily drowned out in discussions, and he needs to work on being more assertive. His comprehension skills are sound, particularly his ability to find the meaning in a technique or detail, but he lacks creativity; his writing style is bland and he misses many opportunities for description and elaboration. His poetry is slightly better, presumably because of his ability to focus on details. He may not have a career as a writer, but I am sure his speaking skills will come in useful somewhere in life.

_**Art**_

Sherlock's progress in art has been limited. I have tried to impress upon him the importance of seeing the whole of a picture in the mind's eye as one creates. However, he has irreversibly, I fear, fallen into the habit of starting his picture in the top corner and working down. He does have a very good eye for colour and proportion and captures detail and likeness extremely well, particularly when using paints and drawing pencils, but he is inflexible in style, preferring to produce photographic work rather than experiment with impressionism and style. I will say though, that his work is attractive. Perhaps the experimentation will come in time, but who knows?

_**Music**_

Sherlock has, rather surprisingly, excelled in this subject. He has a particular talent for absorbing and connecting information, making his commentary on compositions and renditions extremely informative. His violin sound and technique have improved dramatically with the proper tuition. It is important that this talent is cultivated and encouraged outside of the school area. I would encourage you, his parents, to enter him into a youth orchestra, where he can grow with peers of his own ability. Sherlock's group-work also needs improving, and I feel that being in an orchestra with people of equal ability will address this issue too. His compositions are dreamy and often have a hypnotic quality to them, although he needs to work at transitions between moods: One should not switch suddenly from lulling to lively, as it spoils the effect of both. All in all, Sherlock shows remarkable promise as a musician and composer. He seems to use it as a stress-reliever, and he derives a great deal of pleasure from it too.

_**French**_

Sherlock's French skills have grown quickly since he has begun this lesson, although he does not show equal commitment across all areas of the subject. For example, his listening and reading skills are excellent, whereas his writing and speaking skills are patchy. His French spelling is questionable, and it may be worth considering extra tuition in order to help these rules sink in. I feel that once he understands the structure of the spelling system, he will have no further trouble. With regards to speaking, he will carry on the most involved conversation with his teacher, and yet seems to be unable to consistently do simple things such as conjugate the verb 'avoir'. His vocabulary is extremely extensive in certain areas, such as physical descriptions and giving directions, but when it comes to home, family and school vocabulary, he has picked next to nothing. Again, private tuition may well iron out these discrepancies. Overall he has been an intriguing, if at times infuriating, child to teach this year.

_**Games**_

I am afraid that I do not feel Sherlock has made much progress in this subject. His team skills are extremely poor, unless he is the designated team leader. He can also be extremely clumsy, and although his game plans often appear logical, he is highly inflexible when it comes to putting them into practice, or reverting to a different plan as games play out. His anatomical knowledge is inconsistent. He has no motivation or interest in solitary sports whatsoever, with the exception of boxing and other combat sports, in which he excels and which, unfortunately, are not taught officially in this school.

_**History**_

Sherlock's motivation in this subject seems to depend wholly upon what he considers useful to him. As such he knows a very great deal about certain aspects of history, such as European politics, but very little about domestic history of the common people. His essay-writing skills are generally good, with strategic laying out of evidence and presentation of his argument, however this too is proportional to the interest he has in the questions set. He never misbehaves in class, but he does tend to be easily distracted, and to need jarring back to the real world. If he applies himself I am sure we will make something of him yet.

_**Science**_

Any fool can tell from observing Sherlock that science is his favourite subject. Given the chance he would spend all day in the laboratory, and he has often remained in class with me asking questions long after the lesson, and indeed the school day, have finished. His questions can be a little disturbing, as he has a slight preoccupation with death and the process of decay, as well as the chemical methods of manipulating this. Often I have been forced to research the answers to his questions myself, or to verify the truth of his statements. I feel confident that these are merely the workings of an eager mind, and I foresee a bright future for him in the sciences.

_**Technology**_

Sherlock's efforts at technology have been admirable, if at times dangerous and unorthodox. His techniques are unique, to say the least, and he seems to have little regard for his own safety. He enters into everything he does with a mood of experiment, which can be both a blessing and a curse in such a subject. He has on occasion injured his classmates though not, I am sure, intentionally. He prefers mechanical construction and design to woodwork, and has recently been going through a fascination with clockwork. He has little patience with forward planning and design, although I think this is because he enters into all his projects with a clear, fully formed idea in his mind. If he were to become a carpenter or mechanic I would trust him with his work, but I would stay well clear of his workshop when he was working.

_**After School Activities**_

Sherlock is without a doubt the school's, and indeed the district's, best chess player. This leads us into a moral dilemma of how to give the other children he plays against a chance of winning. This is something we have not yet resolved, as it does not seem fair to tie his hands, so to speak. He would benefit from attending boxing lessons or a martial arts class. Apart from anything else this would make him less of a danger to his classmates.


	11. Chapter 11

**TWO COGS**

It was with some trepidation that I furnished my good friend and loyal companion with a new watch, so to speak. In fact, relations between us had been cool to say the least, ever since his departure from Baker Street. And yet it seemed only right to acknowledge, in some way, his years of unfailing service prior to his infatuation and seduction.

It was clear from his test of my deduction skills that the watch, belonging to his late brother, meant a great deal to him. Therefore when it stopped working he kept it for several months regardless. Logic and sentiment seemed rather at odds in this situation, and in the interests of tact I refrained from mentioning the fact that he turned up late for almost everything. This presented difficulties when I required him to assist me on cases, as I had to waste time and brain energy on organisation, which would usually be Watson's forte.

Therefore I hit upon an ingenious solution, if I say so myself. Mycroft put me in touch with a friend named Bernard Pick; the best watchmaker in London. It was somewhat immoral but to obtain the watch without Watson's permission I was compelled to burgle his house while he slept. I have a toolbox in which I have a universal key and some cork-soled shoes. In this way I crept up to his front door, quietly unlocked it and went in. The fire was still glowing in the hearth, and there was a cooling mug of cocoa on Mary's desk. However, Watson's dressing gown, which hangs on the bathroom door during the day, was not there, indicating that he and Mary had retired. Watson's coat was draped over the back of his desk chair. I felt in the pocket and pulled out the watch. Its hands read seven thirty-five, which they had done for the past four months.

I slipped the watch into my pocket, and at nine O'clock the next morning, I found myself standing on the doorstep of Bernard Pick's shop. It was obvious what a popular watchmaker he was, by the worn state of the front step and the extreme smoothness of the bell rope. Bernard himself came to the door. He was a near-sighted man, and although he appeared to be unsteady on his feet, his hands were as still and precise as glass.

"Ah Mr Holmes – the younger Mr Holmes!" he greeted me. I returned his greetings and stepped inside.

The shop looked more like a living room. There was a sheepskin rug in front of a hearth, and on the rug lay an elderly basset-hound who had been born and bred in London, judging by the almost complete wearing down of its claws. Against one wall there sat a large wooden table, upon which hundreds of tools and watch pieces lay.

I walked round the room, examining curiously. "You are a man of habits," I commented, seeing the groove in the wall which showed the furniture and its positioning had remained the same for years. "You married, but your wife has died and you have not re-married, as I can see from your wedding ring that remains on your finger, coupled with the lock on your wife's desk, which has gathered several years' worth of undisturbed dust.

"It's true what they say about you then," said Bernard Pick, with a note of distrust in his voice. "Pray, what can I do to assist you?"

"I have a watch here belonging to a dear friend," I told him, producing Watson's watch for him to see. "It stopped working and I wish to have it restored for him."

Bernard Pick took a tool from his table and prised open the back of the watch. "Note the pawnbroker's numbers on the back, for they tell the story of his brother's changing fortunes over the years," I said. I then pointed to the grooves and scratches on the casing of the watch and explained their significance.

"This is a hallowed watch, my friend. I would ask that you preserve its state as best you can in the mending process," I said.

"I can only do my best," murmured Bernard Pick.

"But it is mendable?"

"Oh yes," he assured me. "These two cogs," he pointed, "…Through time and stress, appear to have bent each other out of shape, thus jamming the works."

"Then it is simple enough to fix without significant alteration?"

"Yes," he said. And with that he took a miniature pair of pliers and prised out the offending cogs. "We won't even need to replace them," he said. "All we need to do is this," and before I could protest he gave each cog a quick yet highly precise tweak. "There!" he exclaimed. "That should sort the blighters!" Within seconds the cogs were screwed back into place and immediately the clock began ticking. "All we must do now is ajust the time!" He glanced at his own clock – a mahogany-framed, roman-numeraled specimen that had a place on the wall over the mantelpiece, and in an instant he had adjusted the hands of Watson's watch to match.

"Excellent," I ejaculated.

"Easy," he retaliated.

"How much do I owe you?" I enquired.

"For you Mr Holmes," he replied, "Nothing. It has been a pleasure meeting you in person after hearing so much about you from your brother."

"Oh I am sure he exaggerates greatly," I murmured.

"He said you were stubborn, unfeeling, obsessive and competitive."

"In that case he understates!" I said, laughing."

"He also called you a good and loyal friend."

"I hope so," I replied, as Bernard Pick showed me out the door.

On Christmas day I produced the watch for Watson. "I thought this would never work again!" he exclaimed.

"Two cogs," I said, "Had jammed, stoppering the system. A friend of mine simply re-shaped them so that they could work together once more. Elementary, he might say. See it as a Christmas gift."

"Well, it is a wonderful gift indeed," Watson said, beaming down at the watch. "I would never part with it, even if it never worked again, but I am glad there are a few years of life left in it yet." And with that he picked up his glass to propose a toast:

"To two cogs!"


	12. Chapter 12

_This prompt is from Hades, for the 19th December (but things have got a bit out of sequence, apologies :D ). It was 'Lestrade's Love'. I don't pretend to think this fits with the canon, or that it even works as a fan fiction. But I was a bit stuck for originality!_

**LESTRADE'S LOVE**

It is at Christmastime in particular that I think of you. I remember your curly brown hair, your beautiful, too-wide smile (always ironic in my presence), your brashness and wit which I was compelled to oppress during interrogations, and your dark, hollow eyes. Sometimes, even now, I even fancy I see the formation of your face in the swirling snowflakes, or etched into the surface of the ice.

Of course, there is no way we could ever have had a life together, legally or practically. Not that you would have wanted it. Half the time I was the arresting officer when you made bets or took out loans you could never repay. Nobody could have deduced that it was I who repeatedly bought back your possessions when you sold everything you owned. I remember how you would pace the cell, how your hands shook from either intoxication, anger, despair or all three, and how I wished I could help you in some way. But I would have been overstepping my duty as a member of Scotland Yard. You never accepted help from anybody anyway.

You were either elated to the point of irrationality or depressed into black madness. In the end the latter got the better of you. You took yourself to the bridge. You climbed onto the side and held onto the metal struts, covered over with peeling paint, traces of which clung to your hands all night and allowed the police force to deduce the manner of your death. You looked up at the sky – black with smog, and down at the river beneath your feet, freezing and swollen from melting snow and ice. Then you leaned forward, far out over the water, and you let go.

They found you half a mile downstream the next morning. They wanted me to come to the scene, but I simply couldn't. Not once the police had confirmed the identity of your body. It was me who let you out of your cell the night you took your life. Does that mean I was to blame, or am I absolved because I tried to treat the causes for your unhappiness? I could have pursued you day and night in an effort not to leave you alone with yourself, or, as a police officer, I could have had you committed. I could have done more. There is such a thing as too much of a sense of duty. Your brother and his friend know that better than I do, and for that, however grudgingly, I admire them.

Afterwards, I was part of a group of official detectives, along with a psychiatric doctor, who went through your belongings and searched your house as part of the inquest into your death. They were looking for evidence of mental instability. I found your short stories. They were the works of a true genius. A florid, deranged genius, it is true, but your use of language was phenomenal and your descriptions truly moving. The Van Gogh of writing? Time will tell.

Do I miss you? I don't know. I look for you everywhere, and think of a world where I could have been free to love you openly. Mostly I am aware of the utter waste of such a unique individual. Since then I have learned to keep matters of work and matters of the heart far apart. You taught me that and for that I am grateful. There is nothing more I can think of to say, except for every December the 21st I go to the bridge, to the spot where you climbed up, and I drop a guinea over the edge. Maybe in years to come somebody will dive down to find a great pile of gold. Your legacy to the world. Your legacy to me resides in my heart.


	13. Chapter 13

****_Prompt from Spockologist: Watson has a phobia. Be as serious or funny as you wish. This one was meant to be for December 14th  
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**THE PECULIAR QUIRKS OF A PERSON**

"…He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning…"

I instantly stiffened…

"…Knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that, in spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore, to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner."

"Thank the Lord," I commented, sighing with relief and wiping the sweat from my brow."

"Why so?" my friend asked, and then his eyes fixed upon me. "Watson, you look positively shaken. What on Earth is the matter?"

"Oh, it's nothing," I replied, glancing furtively around the room. "Anyway," I continued, by way of changing the subject. "Did he not advertise?"

-/-/-

Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment with flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with astonishment.

"The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!" he gasped. Instantly I was on guard.

"Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off through the kitchen window?" Holmes twisted himself round upon the sofa to get a fairer view of the man's excited face. I braced myself.

"See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!" He held out his hand. Cautiously I peeked, and saw displayed upon the centre of the palm a brilliantly scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in the dark hollow of his hand. Once more I relaxed and focussed wholly on the beautiful object.

-/-/-

"…And, I say, Peterson, just buy a goose on your way back and leave it here with me, for we must have one to give to this gentleman in place of the one which your family is now devouring."

When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and held it against the light. "It's a bonny thing," said he. "Just see how it glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime. Every good stone is. They are the devil's pet baits. In the larger and older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone is not yet twenty years old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy River in southem China and is remarkable in having every characteristic of the carbuncle, save that it is blue in shade instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth, it has already a sinister history. There have been two murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought about for the sake of this forty-grain weight of crystallized charcoal. Who would think that so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the gallows and the prison? I'll lock it up in my strong box now and drop a line to the Countess to say that we have it."

"Must we really order another goose?" I muttered. "Surely it is not our place to reimburse a stranger for what he lost through his own carelessness…"

"Carelessness, Watson? Or force?"

"Why would anyone take a goose by force? There are hundreds for sale at this time of year."

"I believe I am holding the answer in my hand," Holmes replied, somewhat tersely, and I realised I was trying his patience. Nevertheless I could not let the matter drop.

"What is there to be gained in supplying a second goose when the first is the one in which the jewel was found?"

"Really Watson, exercise logic. If we say we have found a goose, and somebody lost a goose containing the stone, you can be certain our thief, or at least someone with a lead, will turn up within the day."

"Your logic is sound."

"Then it is settled. Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, then:

"Found at the corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry Baker can have the same by applying at 6:30 this evening at 221B, Baker Street.

"And you can do nothing until this fellow turns up?"

"Nothing. "

"In that case I shall continue my professional round," I said. "Before the promised goose arrives…" I didn't say, with a shudder, as I hastily retreated from the Baker Street rooms.

-/-/-

Well after six thirty I returned to Baker Street, to find Sherlock Holmes sitting in his armchair, deep in thought. After carefully checking the room, I hung up my coat and sat down to smoke a pipe with him.

"You are late," he remarked. I did not answer. "So much for Mr. Henry Baker," said Holmes when he had closed the door behind me. "It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever about the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?"

"Not particularly."

"Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and follow up this clue while it is still hot."

"I'd rather not."

"I'm sorry?" For once I had genuinely surprised Holmes. There were times when I could not assist him, and times when he did not require assistance, but there had never yet been a time when I had been readily available, yet had not had the inclination to assist him on such a momentous case.

"Watson, are you quite well?" He enquired. "You've been on edge ever since this whole business came up." His eyes narrowed, as he reflected upon this.

"It's geese," I explained, feeling a little sheepish.

"What about them?"

"I…I'm just not terribly fond of them."

"In what way?"

"I just…I'm afraid I can't really explain. Their feet…their beaks. They're so…dead and cold."

"I am surprised that bothers you, being a medical man."

"Well I did tell you I couldn't really explain what it was. Their flappishness has always scared me too."

Holmes cocked his head to the side, and then to my astonishment he suddenly threw back his head and let out a great, silent roar of laughter. I felt my dignity had been somewhat slighted and was about to admonish him when he recovered himself, chuckled and wiped his eyes.

"Peculiar, the little irrational quirks people have, isn't it?" He commented.

"I suppose it is," I said.

"If it is any comfort at all I cannot venture anywhere near St. James's Park. Or at least, I try very hard not to go down that way."

"Why so?"

"I've never been overly fond of ducks."

"Ducks?"

"Indeed. I remember one time, sitting on a bench by the pond, and dosing off. When I awoke I felt a pressure on my foot. I sat up and there was one of the infernal creatures using my foot as a nest. I've never kicked out so hard in all my life – not even when fighting a criminal."

"And what happened to the duck…?" I enquired, struggling not to laugh now myself.

"It went tumbling into the river before it could establish its flight," he said. We stared at each other for a few moments, and then simultaneously began to chuckle, before bursting into laughter once more. After several minutes, we drew to a halt.

"Well," said Holmes, "We have some excellent leads from our friend Mr Henry Baker. I believe it unlikely that we shall encounter any more fowl on our way, unless we are compelled to visit the breeder of the goose. And if that should become necessary, we are two grown men who have taken on many notorious criminal. Doubtless we can somehow help each other overcome our apprehensions somehow. Shall we proceed?"

"By all means."


	14. Chapter 14

_I hope I have done this justice. As I said, I'm a little stuck for ideas … :D From MyelleWhite: Canada. Was meant to be the 20th December prompt..._

**CANADA**

"Candida?"

"No, Holmes – _Canada_."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure."

"Well, what is it?"

"It's a country."

"There's a country called Candida?"

"_Canada."_

"Oh."

"Just North of America. You've honestly never heard of it?"

"It has never been of any importance to me. And now that I do know it, I shall try and forget it."

"Forget it? It's the second largest country in the world!"

"All the more reason to forget it quickly before it gains too deep a hold."

"But Holmes, it's…"

"What does it matter to me? If anything noteworthy had happened in it I would have remembered."

"Well, should a war break out, we may have much to thank them for."

"Speculation. Right now all that interests me is my work, and as long as it and Candida do not collide I have no need for any knowledge of the place."

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

"Mr Holmes? A Miss Adeline Campbell to see you."

"Tell her I'm busy."

"Now Mr Holmes, she's come a very long way for your services. I think she's American…sorry…Canadian…"


	15. Chapter 15

_Prompt from Aleine Skyfire: 'Sleigh Ride'. Meant to be the prompt for the 12__th__ December._

**SLEIGH RIDE**

Holmes learned by trial and error not to employ the services of his canine friend, Toby, on exceptionally snowy days.

I well remember the occasion of learning. It was relatively early in my relations with my friend, in December of 1884. It was a cold, still day and a thick, crisp blanket of snow had descended silently in the night. We were tracking a killer, and the man's footprints (and it was a man, as Holmes had deduced from the size of the feet, the length of the stride and thus the height, the pattern of the soles of his shoes and the type of ash that could only come from loose tobacco such as that found in a pipe) had given way to what I deduced to be a cart, but which Holmes, after sniffing remnants of oil in the snow, and soaking his knees in the process, concluded to be a motorcar. "We will try tracking this motorcar using Toby," Holmes explained. "It is the quickest, simplest way, it allows us to enjoy the landscape as we go, and if that fails, well then we know from the tracks that the car in question has a loose left back wheel, a faulty oil tank and is habitually found on the roads near the river. Silt, my dear Watson," he added, as I opened my mouth to request an explanation.

We called upon the kennels in which Toby resided, and minutes later Holmes returned, pink with pleasure, being dragged by his 'colleague'. Toby bounded up to me and put his paws on my shoulders. I moved him away from the site of my bullet wound, and ruffled his neck. Holmes then squatted, scooped up a handful of snow from over the tracks, and held it up to Toby's nose. He then stood up. "Good boy," he said, "Good dog, Toby! Find it!"

For a few minutes Toby trotted meekly along, nose to the ground. Then suddenly he must have picked up a strong scent, because he gave a sharp bark, his leash tightened and Holmes was being pulled along at top-speed with me sprinting beside him. "Go Toby – go! Good boy! Find the motor car!" my companion shouted in encouragement. We turned left, then right, then right again and then hurtled down a long street, deserted apart from a few startled members of the public, and the ever-present motorcar tracks. Doubtless Holmes would have stopped and asked them for further details of the car, but on this occasion that was not possible, as he already using the majority of his concentration simply to stay on his feet.

Then Toby abruptly made a right-angle turn, and in turning, Holmes's foot slipped. He went down in a graceful arc, pulled forwards by Toby, but with admirable determination and strength of fingers, he managed to keep a grip on the leash. The snow on the road had been flattened by feet and wheels passing over it, and as such he skimmed over it on his stomach, calling "Follow the tracks, Watson!" over his shoulder. I continued to hurry down the street, but my leg was beginning to hurt, along with my ribcage from breathing so hard, and against my will I was forced to rest against a wall and get my breath back before continuing. It was the trail of blood droplets that roused me and spurred me on.

Thankfully after only a few hundred yards I came in sight of the river, where the tracks took me into the grounds of a deserted churchyard. There Holmes stood, soaking wet, leaning against a very battered motorcar with blood streaming from his nose, but laughing silently and holding the leash of a very smug looking Toby.

"Holmes, what a state you are in!" I cried when I saw him.

"It was worth it," was his response, "They should make a sport out of that. Most invigorating!"

"And the killer?"

"I have detained him…"

"…Tied him up?"

"Precisely, and dispatched one of the irregulars for the official force," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "I already hold all the threads of this case in my hand, and once this fellow is taken in for questioning we shall have no trouble ensuring a conviction. A most satisfying outcome, but not, I think, an outcome to trump the sleigh-ride Toby has so courteously just graced me with!"


	16. Chapter 16

_This prompt from MyelleWhite: __Song: Primavera by Ludovico Einaudi. Supposed to be for December 13__th__. Put the song on and read this at about speaking pace, as the song plays. If I have written and structured it effectively, it should be apparent how it links in with the song._

**COLD**

Stage 1

You awake to profound silence and enticing light bleeding underneath the curtains. You arise and pad through to the living room. A milky snow-fog has descended over London. Visibility is next to nothing. The solitude is overpowering. Snowflakes falling are silhouetted grey against the white-yellow sky. Like a volcano burn-out, like Armageddon, like white ashes.

Stage 2

Through the silence, like a fog-horn, rings the bell. As if from another world comes a young man. You seat him with the light falling on him. He is white, almost translucent, with blueish lips and spider-fingers. He is shivering with the cold…or trembling. It is difficult even for you to tell, so you send for some hot tea to warm him up. He introduces himself and explains that his master (he is a groom, as his legs tell you, to the Duke of York, as his uniform gives away) rode away three nights ago and has not been seen again. You enquire if this is not a matter for the police, and he says nobody, including the police, could find any trace. Your day is quiet, and your friend is away, so you decide to investigate.

Stage 3

On the carriage journey from the station to the Duke's house, you are struck by the absence of the 'clip-clop' as the layer of snow cushions the horse's hooves. It's still falling. If it continues to fall you may not get back to Baker Street. Not that you have any real reason to go back. Your day is quiet, your friend is away. You keep your mind from theorising by thinking of music, which morphs in rhythm and sound to match the flakes descending. You see the house, marble-massive against the white skyline – no yellow tinge like in London. The gates have two symmetrical lions, but they sport icicles. You realise you cannot feel your hands but you do not need them at this stage – you are already looking for clues.

Stage 4

The staff crowd around you in a vortex, reminding you of the snow outside, asking questions, muddying evidence. You command silence and space, tip and fall over the edge of their world into yours. Wine stains, ingrained and overlayed. He drank copiously, and regularly. You see a piano with well-worn pedals. They tell you the master played regularly, but you see the keys thick with dust. Nobody had been allowed in to clean, they say. He had not played for several years, you deduce. The gramophone in the corner – it is shiny, and there is a piano recording left in it, and the chair is worn. He had wanted them to think all was well, you deduce, he had not wanted to appear weak. All was not well, you deduce. In his room the bed is beautifully made – he had planned ahead rather than being called out unexpectedly in the night.

Stage 5

There are wine stains here too, and splashed on the cabinet. They are vibrant enough to only be a few days old. To drink and ride is a dangerous thing. When drink is involved a horse is infinitely more dangerous that a motorcar. A motorcar may crash, but a horse can sense the delusions and smell the drink… You prise open his desk, absolutely insisting on the importance of this. In the desk, there are letters. You read each and every one, as the family look on over your shoulder. Their eyes burn your back, though there would be no logical reason to tell them of this. Letters from a man named Frances Jones concerning his will. And letters from overseas. Love letters from his time on the continent. Letters replying to both. The mistress must be taken out at this point, so overcome with anguish is she, at the thought of her husband's infidelity. But though the handwriting of the supposed three letter writers is different, you notice the E and the J are drawn with the same slant and the same flick at the beginning, and the stamps on the supposed French letters are old, as if from a collection. The final letter to Chantelle, the supposed French woman, was dated the night before the disappearance, and was intoxicated with passion. The son begs you to tell and show nobody, lest the family's honour be ruined. You cannot promise, as you realise you are dealing with a delusional, impulsive man who can no longer tell fact from fiction, and that the situation is dire. It is a ten mile trek over the moors to the seaport and in such snow, in the night, the chances of survival are slim.

Stage 6

The mistress, who by this stage has managed to recover somewhat, gathers blankets. One of the servants prepares a flask of hot soup. You dress in many layers, and along with the son you venture out. The son has a compass. You have taken a broom, refusing to explain why. You travel east. You follow the brook which, in the snow, is the clearest path of navigation. Every few feet you stop and sweep the snow from the brook. The son asks why you are doing this. You are too preoccupied to reply. You trudge and trudge for two hours solid, pushing back the snow as you go, with no sign until you notice, and point out to the son, that in one small area the ice has been cracked, just enough for an animal – or two animals – to drink from. You continue to follow the brook, higher and higher as the snow becomes thicker. You realise you have icicles on your eyelashes. Your feet feel very distant. The snow has already covered your tracks.

Stage 7

The snow begins to give way to stars and darkness. The moon is rising. The ice begins to thicken, and the clouds have cleared. In the summer you would hear the bleating of sheep, the rustle of grass and field creatures, but the sheep are in their barns, the field creatures are dead and the grass is buried under feet of snow. This is a stark landscape – not a place for life. You enter a jagged, rocky cliff-face, streaked with ice, sheer and blue in the moonlight, and in that you see a cave. You hurry towards it, slipping on the icy stones as you do so. This bit was sheltered from the snow and gathers almost no light, but there is a hollow opening in the face with icicles like stalactites, and into this you venture. In it, you see at the very back, a frosted mass – a tarpaulin-like object covering something long and wide. Although you are seldom stirred by such things, your mind thrills with horror and sadness at the profound stillness of it. You lift one corner, and the peaceful, dead face of a black horse can be seen. The son drops to his knees. You whip the tarpaulin off. It is solid with cold. Underneath, the horse is curled round the body of a man. The son begins to sob and repeat again and again that he is dead. You put your face to his cheek, and feel the barest fog of warmth. You tell the son that he is not dead, but on the brink of death. You lie across him and place your arms around him, and his hands under your armpits. You lie like that until the cold begins to take its grip on you too, and then you wrap him in blankets and rub him to generate friction heat which will be insulated in the blanket, warming him. Looking outside you see the snow has stopped, and there is a full moon. You send the son to get help. It wasn't very far, but in a white-out it was a near impossible journey.

But now his eyelids are flickering, and when they open a crack, his eyes are unfocussed and dull…but he is alive. You put a finger in his mouth, and when it feels warm enough you help him to take a few sips of soup. Within minutes he is trying to sit up. You introduce yourself and tell him help is on the way. He garbles some words about Chantelle – the imagined woman – and his wife, and a drinking problem and an old classmate who had forced him, by blackmail, to leave all his money to the classmate's son instead of his own. You keep him talking, even although you know the case was closed as soon as you discovered and analysed the letters. There will be no scandal. A long rest, a doctor's prescriptions and a reduction in work will do wonders for the man.

Stage 8

He is carried back to the house. You leave him recovering in bed, and as your presence is no longer required you take the late night train back to London. The sky is pink. The air is dry. The storm may have passed, but it will be several months before the snow begins to melt.


	17. Chapter 17

_Prompt from Poseidon: Watson misses the peculiar Christmas customs of his childhood. Supposed to be for 15th December _

**FAMILY TRADITIONS**

"When I was a boy we were forced to sing Christmas carols round a lamp post, because my father feared that if we brought a live tree into the house the pine needles, once deposited in the garden after the festivities were over, would each grow into a tree, thus ensnaring our house in a forest and cutting us off from civilisation, but that if we didn't sing carols around something our house would be cursed."

"That's nothing. When _I _was a boy we were forbidden from singing carols because Mycroft's voice sounded like a territorial cat. And don't get me started on the territory-marking."

"That's _nothing_. My brother used to rent books from the local library to give us for Christmas, before taking them back the next day, because of his financial difficulties. Christmas was a time for intensive reading."

"A mere trifle! When _I _was a boy all our presents, including our annual gift of pyjamas from our father, had to be iron-cast, because if they didn't make a clang and remain intact when thrown against a stone wall Mycroft would tear them to pieces in a fit of rage, calling them counterfeit."

"Oh yes, we made a sport of that."

"Did you have trophies?"

"Not trophies as such. The lowest scoring member of the family five years in a row was secured a career in the army."

"Ha ha."

"I didn't mind except for the fact that every year I went home for Christmas after that my parents teased me about it."

"Hence spending your Christmases here?"

"No."

"Then why?"

"My brother died on December 21st. Christmas will never be the same again."


	18. Chapter 18

_Spockologist's prompt: Watson babysits the irregulars. Supposed to be for 18__th__ December_

**THANK YOU LETTERS**

Der dr wotson, thanks fo the rabbit pi it was good. Sorry abut the pi fiet. An the speriment test tubes. Hope miss Hudson dint shut at you to hard. Hope the carpet gets clen agen. Thaks agen, Will.

-/-/-

Thanks for the rabbit pie. I know it was meant for yours supper but since Mr Holmes was on a case we thought you might need help eatin it. Hope we wasn't mistaken there. About the ornanaments. My brother didn't mean to knock them off the mantelpiece. I hope you can tell the housekeeper that. Maybe itll stop us all getting into trouble. Hope we can come again. George.

-/-/-

Whydya shout was only a bit of pie! An were's are shillins.

-/-/-

Next time can I shoot my letters into the wall as well? Id love that. I had a real gun onse but it got convictscated from me by them scotland yarders cos I shot at a cat. but it was jus for fun I never ment no harm by it and that was last week and I no better now. Reg.

-/-/-

Tell Mr Holmes I like his collection of criminals. But to be onist I didn't much like your rite ups of the cases. Too sappy. You shoud be more like Mr Holmes. But thanks for the food. O and tell him we found the goat he was askin for. Wev got it in a bike shed up the river. Only tell him to get a move on cos its getting proper smelly down there an were runnin outa food for it. Wig.

-/-/-

I Don't Know What To Rite So I Shall Rite A Poem Instead. Its One I Learnt From My Grandma And It Goes Like This: Don't Go Nocking Up The Doors Doing What You Should Not Do, For Enforsers of the Laws May Deside to Nock On You. I Hope You Liked My Poem.

-/-/-

I heared from Wiggins that you was unhappy with the fact we ate the rabbit pie. So heres a new rabbit for you. I hope it will do just as well. Thanks again.


	19. Chapter 19

_Prompt from Poseidon: Holmes's deductive skill causes problems – how can his friends and family surprise him with Christmas gifts?_

**THE GREAT CONSPIRACY**

YES! YES! IN YOUR FACE HOLMES! IN YOUR FACE!

Please excuse me. I should explain, this year was the first year in all of our long friendship that I managed to surprise Holmes. I had decided to get him a new coat for Christmas. However with Holmes, the more secretive one is the more likely he is to notice something is amiss and apply those legendary skills of observation and deduction. I had long suspected the way to fool him was to hide in plain sight, as it were, and posing the theory to Mycroft and Mrs Hudson they concurred.

Therefore, we hit upon a plan. We very brazenly went about ordering and wrapping our presents, leaving trails and tell-tale signs everywhere. We also borrowed another magnifying lens, some cork-soled shoes and scientific supposedly for Holmes (I had checked beforehand that he already had all of these), and then allowed him to deduce them in advance, pretending to be chagrined at his guessing them prematurely. He was polite enough to only mention in passing that he already had these presents, and on Christmas day we gathered at Baker Street. After Christmas lunch gifts were exchanged. Among the presents received:

- Mrs Hudson received a red-knitted scarf from me

- I received a new tobacco pouch from Mycroft

- Mycroft received a new coat from Mrs Hudson

We all put our presents in their appropriate places, and then, at the end of the day, I made an announcement:

"The game is up, Holmes," I told him. "The presents we gave to you are not your real presents. Admit that we fooled you."

He looked blank. "I'm sorry?"

- Mrs Hudson removed 'her' scarf and gave it to him.

- Mycroft took 'his' coat down from the peg and gave it to him.

- I retrieved 'my' tobacco pouch and gave it to him.

Holmes gazed for a few seconds at the presents that had been placed on his knee. Then, with his eyes cast down and struggling to retain his impassivity, he hung the coat up, placed the tobacco pouch on the mantelpiece and wound the scarf around his neck. "Very fetching," he remarked, and finally allowed the smile he had been holding back to spread across his face.

"Did we fool you?" Mrs Hudson enquired.

Holmes cleared his throat, a flush on the centre of each cheek. "You did," he admitted, and we all heartily congratulated each other while he stood, somewhat awkwardly, smiling in the centre of the living room of 221B Baker Street.


	20. Chapter 20

_Prompt: From Scarper Gallywest – Watson's Woes, among them a flatmate who refuses to shine his shoes. For the purposes of this little piece I have used 'his shoes' to refer to Watson's shoes, rather than Holmes's…Supposed to be a prompt for the 22__nd__ December._

**SHOES**

"For the last time, no."

"Dammit Holmes, you got me into this, both literally and figuratively, and you're jolly well getting me out of it again!"

"I observe, my dear Watson, that you have retained your army training to an admirable degree."

"Oh no you don't. Flattery will get you nowhere this time, my friend. It was completely unnecessary."

"Stealth Watson; we could not afford to leave any tracks."

"Rubbish. The bank was rocky, and I saw the gleam in your eye at the time. There is the brush. There is the polish. Look sharp."

"Do you really believe you can intimidate me into shining your shoes?"

"Yes. Now polish them quickly. We are visiting Scotland Yard at nine O'clock tomorrow morning, and to talk to a lady as well. True, she may be locked up for smashing a china puffin over Lestrade's head but it's no – stop laughing Holmes – it's no excuse not to dress like a gentleman! I cannot go in with shoes caked in Thames river-bed, and that is final."

"Alright, alright. Anything for a little peace and quiet."

"Well, that is one sentiment I never thought I would hear you express."

"Savour the moment."


	21. Chapter 21

_Prompt: From Sagredo: Holmes and Watson attend the inaugural performance of Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker. To Holmes's astonishment, Watson hates it. Why? Supposed to be for16th December._

**A CRACK IN A NUT OF FRIENDSHIP**

The night was chill but the discussion between my friend Sherlock Holmes and I was heated.

"Watson, how could you _possibly _hate such a display of musical competency and artistic precision?" His voice was even more strident than it normally was and he was walking jerkily in his irritation, and fast enough for me for me to have to jog to catch up.

"I've already told you, Holmes. I warned you before you booked this…ballet is simply not my forte!"

"Well _that _is hardly difficult to deduce," he snapped.

"I am surprised _you _liked it," I puffed in reply. "It was a most illogical storyline. In fact the plot could have been written by a person under the influence of a psychotropic compound!"

"My dear man, that is where the beauty of the thing lies!" Holmes snapped. "Escapism! The imagination is like any other organ and must be fed on a regular basis. Especially when one is engaged on an almost perpetual basis in matters concerning logic and precision! Now if that is your only complaint we shall move on to other more important topics!"

"No indeed," I shouted, drowning the end of his sentence out. "There are more problems with the basic story. Holmes, can you not see how hopelessly romanticised the whole thing was? Here you are constantly complaining about my writings and then you go and see this – this _fantasy _in which a pretty girl meets the man of her dreams who shows off to her like a peacock waving its big brightly coloured tail, wins her affections through battling an enemy we have no reason to hate in the first place, and then they disappear off to a fairlyland made of talking chocolate and sweets! If that isn't sheer romanticism, you tell me what is."

My leg was beginning to hurt, and to his credit he slowed down.

"And falling in love with a toy is simply madness," I persisted.

He rounded on me. "I'll tell you what it is, Doctor," he spat. "It's art. It's the romance of an _idea._ And before you boggle at what I say, yes of course too much 'romance' can ruin a person, but a _little_ romance of the right kind is absolutely essential. What motivates the human race besides hope and beauty and joy? Those are all different kinds of romantic notions, and that's what was so remarkable about Tchaikovsky. He _understood _that need at its fundamental level and wove it into his score. And the choreographers, they turned that into something visual. You cannot get a greater skill, or merging of skills, than that. An understanding of that is what defines art. Get it wrong and it is merely lust, shoddiness and vulgarity, and not only is it stale and without purpose on its own, but it cheapens the deep meaning of life and love and art in the process! So don't you dare tell me that The Nutcracker is false romance, because if you do I shall never respect you again!"

"Alright then," I said, determined not to be beaten. "Tell me this. What did Clara do to deserve this adventure bestowed upon her by her godfather? Her brothers may have broken the nutcracker, but at least _she _got to keep her toy. They all had theirs locked away by the adults. Where's the justice in that? I can see why they would be jealous. It would look like favouritism."

"The _justice_," said Holmes, "Is that their presents were locked away because they were so valuable. Clara's present was just a wooden nutcracker. She drew the short straw, so to speak. Because it had no material value her toy _had _to have some magical connection to make up for its worthlessness, and what it did was lead her to the man who would make her secure and happy for the rest of her life."

"So what you are saying is that the best thing for women is to marry off as soon as possible so the men can stop worrying about them?"

"That is the harsh reality of our world, Watson, and that is why I choose to have nothing to do with the whole thing."

"You really are insufferable!" I cried, snapping at last. "Find your own way home." And with that I hailed a passing cab and climbed in. "Baker Street," I said, rather more harshly than I meant.


	22. Chapter 22

_This is a slight cheat, but I had such a strong urge to write this case I had to go ahead with it. It is born out of two prompts:_

_From Scarper Gallywest – a story in which a young silversmith is poisoned by an intravenous injection of nutmeg. Supposed to be for 17__th__ December_

_From Sagredo – write about a case in which Holmes joins a carolling troupe in order to gather information. Supposed to be for 23__rd__ December_

**SILVERSMITHS AND NUTMEG DO NOT MIX**

"Ah, Lestrade. Sit down. A cigarette?"

"No thank you. You investigated?

"I did."

"Now, this case of the silversmith and the sisters living next door to each other. You saw the exhibits and talked to the witness?"

"I did neither of those things."

"No doubt you used some peculiar method of your own then."

"No no! Not a method as such. And certainly not peculiar by most peoples' standards!"

"Well…?"

"I have formed my conclusion."

"It was the younger sister?"

"In fact it was not."

"It must have been. She was the only other family member who knew about the nutmeg habit, and besides we know nothing was forced! It was a crime of jealousy because her older sister was better off, being married to a silversmith."

"Those sisters care about each other very much."

"…Which is why the younger one poisoned the older one's husband and made off with her tiara?"

"What did you see at the crime scene, Lestrade?"

"I saw the syringe with the younger sister's fingerprints on it from when she used it to inject the husband."

"In that case you saw wrongly."

"The tiara was at the younger sister's house as we knew it would be!"

"The younger sister did not steal the tiara. Or at least, not at the time of the murder. She had taken it as insurance…she was keeping it secretly to protect the older sister from future destitution."

"You may spin your little webs of speculation, Mr Holmes, but I know human nature better than you. Whenever there is a back to be stabbed, it is nearest and dearest who betray you."

"…Which is why you will note that I hold nobody dear to me. No. Mark my words – those sisters are very close."

"How do you know?"

"I performed an experiment."

"An experiment?"

"Yes. I joined a carol troupe."

"Now look here, Mr Holmes. I've put up with a good deal of your puzzles and downright tomfoolery over the years, but this is taking it a step too far…"

"Bear with me Lestrade. All will be revealed. These sisters both attended choir and volunteered for the annual carolling troupe. Talking to their choir master, I discovered that they had been tasked with singing the first verse and chorus of "Ding Dong Merrily" in unison, unaccompanied by the rest of the choir."

"How does this bear with the case in any way?"

"Patience. Curious, I joined the choir, disguised as a common merrymaker. It took me back to my time at the university, in the chapel…"

"Mr Holmes, I am going to count down from five and if you haven't convinced me I shall make my arrest. Five…"

"…You are putting me under immense pressure…"

"…Four…"

"…Alright. I was impressed that they did not let the rest of the choir down due to their own misfortune. I heard them sing their solo…"

"…Three…"

"…And I noticed that one of them had a much better sense of rhythm than the other…"

"…Two…"

"…And yet the one with a better rhythm was purposefully making rhythmic mistakes to remain in unison with her sister…"

"…One…"

"…She was able to perfectly predict the errors her sister would make and fit in with them, showing they had practiced together a great deal, knew each other's habits inside out and were very close to each other, how is that?"

"It's…it's…well, you really do amaze me with your methods Mr Holmes! But if it _wasn't _the younger sister, it must still have been somebody close to the family. Very few people knew about the nutmeg."

"One other person certainly knew. It was someone very close to the family indeed. More than close…I'm sorry to say it was a family member. But he was acting with the best of intentions."

"_The best of intentions?"_

"Yes. You will remember the silversmith's son's eyes when his father was mentioned. Although his father was dead, the son's natural reaction upon the mention of him was terror. This raised my suspicions about the mother's so-called illness. I spoke to her in private, and it appears the father was in fact highly abusive and very selfish. Silversmith he may have been, but he squandered all the money he earned on drugs and gambling, and abused his wife and son whenever they asked for anything costly such as extra food or new clothes.

"The mother's illness was actually an internal wound that kept being opened when she was repeatedly kicked or smashed against furniture, causing her regular haemorrhages and great pain, which she hid from her son, lest she frightened him. She told her friends and family that she suffered from rheumatism. She and her son David were the only people to see him inject, and they both knew he kept several vials of nutmeg in his desk drawer, along with a syringe for injecting.

"Then I spoke to David. I do not speak lightly when I say that he is one of the bravest and most resilient youths I have ever met. At first he was stubborn and maintained that neither he or his mother or aunt knew anything, but when I told him I knew about his mother's injuries, he confessed. He did it to protect himself and his mother, because he was afraid that one day his father would kill them both. Finally I spoke to the younger sister. She had heard banging and shouting across the garden, and had called their father for support. While she waited for him she went in herself and found the dead man just after David had injected him with the nutmeg overdose. David ran away and hid in the garden. She pulled the syringe out, wiped his fingerprints off and replaced them with her own, to spare him retribution at such a young age. That is the moment the sisters' father arrived and saw the scene."

"And the tiara?"

"…Had been one that the older sister's husband had made. The younger sister had taken it and hidden it away so that if anything happened to the older sister's husband she and David would not become destitute."

"You do know that I will have to retain the younger sister on charges of conspiracy, don't you Mr Holmes?"

"I do. I wish such an obligation did not exist. It discourages people from being honest. Had she told the truth in the first place they all would have gone free on the grounds of self-defence, I would imagine."

"Most likely. But in all honesty I think any respectable judge will be inclined to be lenient, given the pressure the family was under, the noble intentions and the fear the younger sister had for her nephew."

"That is true. Well Mr Sherlock Holmes, I must thank you once again for your input."

"Very peripheral on this occasion."

"And yet illuminating, as always. Frustratingly so."

"I trust that if there are any further difficulties you will contact me?"

"Indeed. Good day to you."

"And you."


	23. Chapter 23

****_This prompt was for today - I am up to date! It was simply 'Snowmen', from Spockologist.  
><em>

**SNOWMEN**

One crisp December morning, two men stood in a street, smoking cigarettes and leaning against a three-foot stone wall. This was topped with a layer of fresh snow, and bordered a park area in which stood two children patting snow onto rather precarious looking snowmen. One of the snowmen was tall, with arms made out of sticks and a hat pulled down low on its head. The other was slightly shorter and stockier with no arms at all, and a green scarf wrapped too-far up its neck. It had stones for buttons. Both were smoking pipes.

"Did you get it?" asked the first man, whose name was Colonel Michael Turnbridge, and whose right hand had been clubbed since birth.

"You were right," said the second man – a small, skinny creature of about twenty-five named Seamus Dogg, glancing around in a hunted fashion, "There was really nothing to it."

"You see, that's the trouble with being rich," the Colonel explained. "You forget that your guardsmen are bribable, or druggable. Which did you use, out of interest?"

"Drugs," said Seamus Dogg, holding up a small ether-bottle and a handkerchief.

"Careful," warned the Colonel. "You'll be knocking us out." He chuckled. "So where is it?"

"Here," Dogg reached into his pocket and pulled out the offending letter. "Once this goes public his fall from grace will be well and truly assured."

"Excellent," the Colonel said, tearing open the letter. "I was beginning to get nervous."

"The game's up, Colonel," said a voice from the park. The snowmen had crumbled away, revealing Holmes and Watson standing side by side amid piles of dirty snow.

"About time too," Watson added, "I was beginning to wonder who we would catch first – these scoundrels, or a nasty cold."

For a moment the two mail-thieves stood stock still in surprise, and then they attempted to run. But Holmes grabbed one in an arm-lock and Watson caught the other and showed him the end of his revolver.

"Get Lestrade, Wiggins," instructed Holmes.

"Aye aye, Cap'n," Wiggins said, saluting, and he ran off round a corner. Seconds later police appeared from all directions, and the thieves were led away in handcuffs.

-/-/-

"Watson?" Holmes asked through a severely blocked nose as they huddled together by the fire the next day, drinking chicken broth and clutching hot water bottles.

"Yes Holmes?" Watson coughed weakly.

"You know how you remarked yesterday that you weren't sure which we would catch first? A cold or our targets?"

"Yes…"

"It's a pity we had to catch both, isn't it?"

"We had it coming to us."

"We did rather. But it was a noble cause."

"It was. If any cause was worth dressing up as snowmen for, this was worth it."

"Here here."


	24. Chapter 24

_In response to the prompt 'Quickly'. For December 25th.  
><em>

**THE COAT**

"Watson, come quickly!" My friend was standing at the window, gazing out.

As I approached I saw flakes falling from the sky. "Snow for Christmas!" I exclaimed.

"No, no," he replied, waving my comment away with impatience. "That fellow down there."

I followed his gaze to the gentleman leaning against the lamppost on the opposite side of the street to our rooms. He was breathing hard and clutching his chest. Then he fell to his knees.

My doctor's instinct kicked in straight away. "Quickly Holmes, bring my bag," I instructed, and I hurtled down the stairs and out the door to the man's aid. By the time I got to him he had fallen and was lying in the snow, his breathing irregular, his face a ghastly shade of grey. The man's coat was so bulky that I had to undo it and push it aside to loosen his collar. I felt for a pulse. It was growing rapidly weaker, slower and more irregular. Holmes dropped to his knees beside me, placing my bag nearby.

"Can you save him?" he asked. I had lost the pulse in the man's wrist, and couldn't find one in his neck. When I put an ear to his chest, I heard a disjointed commotion of gurgling and buzzing, which slowly came to a standstill. I lifted my head, my thoughts in disarray. "It's over…" I whispered.

Holmes looked up – he had been examining the man's shoes. "You cannot blame yourself," he said, quietly. The man's face was beginning to change from grey to a ghostly, translucent cream-colour. I stretched out a hand and closed his eyes.

Then Holmes proceeded to relieve the man of his coat and turn the pockets inside out.

"What in God's name are you doing?" I ejaculated, shocked at his lack of respect for the dead.

"I am checking for money," he replied.

"Excuse me?" I whispered.

"Watson, observe the soles of the man's shoes. I am serious!" he added, as I gaped at him. Slowly I made my way to the man's feet. "Tell me what you see."

"I see work shoes. They are well worn – worn right through here, so this man worked hard."

"Excellent, Watson!" my companion praised me, and I realised I had forgotten that we had just watched this man die an untimely death.

"Now tell me what _you _see," I countered, full of anticipation despite my frustration at my own efforts.

"I see," said Holmes as he examined the shoes with his lenses, "…That this man is no gentleman, but a common thief."

"How can you tell?" I asked, "He is clearly a man who worked long hours to wear his shoes down as far as he did."

"I can tell because this coat his is wearing is not his," Holmes declared. "It is brand new. Surely a man who can afford a new coat could afford new soles for his shoes?"

"Perhaps it is a gift?"

"With large amounts of money in the pocket?" Holmes held up a wad of notes.

"Maybe he won it in a bet?"

"Again it is unlikely a person would wager their coat complete with the contents."

"Then he won the money and bought it afterwards?"

"Possible, but with so much money left over why did he not buy some better shoes as well? No. I cannot be sure, but it seems more likely he stole it and was making off with it when he was taken with a heart attack, so we want to retrace his steps in the opposite direction."

"We cannot just leave the man here!" I protested.

"Then we shall notify the police," said Holmes, and whistled to a policeman on duty nearby. Then we slipped round a corner and Holmes handed me the coat. "Put this on," he instructed, "Quickly Watson, before they realise we took it off the body."

"Holmes, this is just as devious as the thief," I hissed as I struggled into the coat. It was several sizes too big.

"Come man, can you think of nothing but problems today? How are we stealing the coat if the man we are taking it from stole it in the first place?" I had no answer. "Walk away normally," Holmes instructed, linked arms with me and we started casually down the road in the opposite direction.

As we walked, Holmes's keen eyes darted from side to side, looking for clues, people without coats or places where people might have a coat taken from them. As I walked, I observed the light dusting of snow that now coated the street, and it was in my observations that I noticed an empty envelope pinned by snow to the top of a wall. "What's this?" I enquired, picking it up. Within moments Holmes had seized it from me and was examining it with his magnifying lens.

"Watson, I believe you may have found the answer to our riddle," he exclaimed. "Look through that lens!" I looked, and saw several black fibres clinging to the envelope. "Now look at this…" He plucked some fibres from the lining of a pocket of the coat and placed them on the envelope. Upon looking through the magnifying glass I observed that they matched perfectly. "The envelope was in the man's pocket."

"Precisely," said Holmes. "And if we turn the paper over…" he did so, and we saw an address in neat black ink: 'Mr J. Fost, 15 Black Street.'

"Well well," said Holmes, "It appears Mr J. Frost is missing a considerable sum of money, which was removed from this envelope by the thief, who must have known the police were likely to be summoned, to hide the fact the coat had been stolen."

"He may well have succeeded had it not been for his unfortunate heart attack," I commented.

"Nature has a peculiar way of catching up with wrongdoers," mused Holmes. "Come, let us take this coat, and this money, to their rightful owners."

We rang the bell of a narrow, red door at 15 Black Street, and it was answered by a prim woman with black hair pinned back tightly. "My husband cannot come to the door," she said, starting to close it, "He is unwell."

"Is your husband Mr J. Frost?" Holmes asked.

"Indeed."

"Then we are sorry to disturb you," I told her, "…But we think we have a coat and some money that belongs to him," and I took off the coat.

After a surprised pause her face gave way to what might almost be called a half-smile. "We were about to call the police," said she, "You have saved us the bother." Then she showed us into a hall that was far more spacious and light than the door alone would had lead one to imagine, and up a flight of carpeted stairs. I saw Holmes glance around and give a satisfied nod; this fitted the indications given by the coat and the money.

Once at the top of the landing the housekeeper knocked on another red door, and called through. "Jack?" she called. I smiled at the name, and also saw Holmes give a suppressed wriggle of appreciation.

"I'm asleep," called a grumpy voice.

"I know you are," the wife called through soothingly. "If you would only wake up and come to the door, you may get a pleasant surprise."

With much sighing and inaudible grumbling, we heard Jack Frost shuffle to the door. He opened it a crack and peered through, with one blackened eye. When he saw the coat, he gave a cry of joy, snatched it from me and slammed the door behind him again.

"It was no trouble at all," replied Holmes to the non-existent thank you.

"He says he went gambling and won some money," Mrs Frost explained. "After that he remembers being hit hard in the face, and then waking up coatless and without his winnings."

"Well, all is well now," said Holmes. "Come Watson, I see it is nearly one O'clock, and if we do not show up for the lunch Mrs Hudson has prepared for us, I fear we may experience her wrath. Again. You will remember the last time…" and with a significant look and a nod to Mrs Frost, we showed ourselves out of the house.


	25. Chapter 25

_Prompt from DetectiveAtWork: __Holmes POV on the death of Watson's wife (Mary)_

**THE RETURN**

The day I arrived back in London was filled with a mixture of elation, nostalgia and regret. I first called on Mycroft in the Diogenes club under the guise of an elderly bookseller. Having formulated my plan of action with him my next thought was to find Watson and let him know that all was well. Knowing the regard in which the good doctor held me, his interest in my cases, and his habit of setting me and my examples on a pedestal, it stood to reason that in his grief at my tragic death he would continue his interest in the criminal world in my honour. Therefore I exchanged three first edition volumes of work by the Bronte Sisters for a newspaper, which I examined for any peculiar or sensational crimes that may have attracted my friend's attention.

I scanned the obituaries for anyone particularly young, notable or associated with Watson or myself in any way, and my eye came to rest on one name: "Mary Watson, nee Morston. Peacefully at home last Saturday, with her husband John beside her, after an acute illness." My hand hovered on the page, and I must confess that my first concern was not for Watson and the grief he was undoubtedly feeling; but as to whether he would be in an objective enough state of mind to assist me in the final task that would ensure I could safely return to Baker Street.

Much as my brain has always governed my heart, as Watson has documented in his publications, it is worth noting that I still do have a heart of sorts. At any rate, there is a part of my brain which is perfectly capable of engaging on some level, in the full range of human emotions. I have always been apprehensive of allowing it any sort of control over me, lest I forget the mental detachment necessary for clear reasoning, but on this occasion striking a fine balance between sympathy and practicality was necessary.

I turned the page of the newspaper, and immediately knew where Watson would be. The inquest into this most singular of crimes, of which I had no doubt who the perpetrator was, was taking place right then in the Crown Court. I was certain that Watson, possessing both a revolver and a bullet wound, and having been in the army, would certainly have an interest in any unusual crimes involving death by gunshot. Furthermore, as the article so floridly detailed, a dead man found in a locked room with no apparent signs of struggle was a sure lure. In my disguise, I hobbled my way to the courthouse, pedalling books as I did so.


	26. Chapter 26

From MyelleWhite - Lestrade threatens to quit and Sherlock must make him stay...by being kind :) This is a spoof of a reconciliation letter between two lovers, and not meant to be in character!

**LOVE LETTER FROM MR SHERLOCK HOLMES**

Dear Lestrade,

I have been informed of your imminent resignation as a direct result of my behaviour towards you. Of course this is entirely your decision, and I am not trying to force my opinion on you, or make you feel you should stay if you don't want to. However, if you are going to leave there are some things I feel I should tell you:

I'm Sorry

- For stepping in and upstaging you in front of your policemen by forcing my deductions upon the scene, which in turn disproved yours. It was not important enough to merit such insensitive behaviour from me, and I admit it is an unfortunate habit, and I should be more considerate.

- For making you feel useless and unappreciated. You have brought me many of my most intriguing cases, and I should be more grateful for that.

- I'm sorry for my frequently dismissive manner and for not acknowledging the fact that you are one of the best detectives in Scotland Yard. You did not get to this position without hard work and at least some level of competency.

Thank You

- For all the interesting cases you have brought me, and for allowing me to work alongside you, despite the fact that I am unofficial, and indeed an amateur.

- For your kind acknowledgement of my help and skills, following a successful investigation.

- For your discretion when, in some instances, a case requires me to gather evidence in a slightly devious manner.

I Love You

- For your humility in coming to an unofficial amateur for help with your cases. It is ungrateful of me to act the way I have towards you.

- For your determined nature which puts the fear of God into any law-breakers that should come in your way

- For your tolerance of my corrections to your deductions, and on occasion, of my practical trickery at your expense.

Whatever career you decide to pursue after this, I have no doubt that you will rise high, and it has been a real privilege to be associated with you.

With deepest respect,

Mr Sherlock Holmes.

-/-/-

(Post-script from Lestrade: I decided not to resign. Holmes was remarkably civil to me for over an hour of our next meeting. I might point out though, using Holmes's methods of observation, that his handwriting has become remarkably similar to Doctor Watson's. I will leave the deductions to the opinion of the reader.)


	27. Chapter 27

_Prompt from Scarper Gallywest: A 221B starting with 'Plagarism' and ending with 'Bowdlerised'. Unfortunately I misread 'Bowdlerised' as 'Bowlerised' and only realised after I had already written the thing…hence the rather weird nature of this prompt response!_

**BOWLERISED**

"Plagarism is a serious accusation, Watson." Holmes was studying a letter I had received from the Strand magazine, concerning my descriptions of Holmes's top hat. It was accusing me of lifting my descriptions from a woman's fashion magazine, of all places, and as such they demanded that I re-word it before they published the story. This had been a shock to say the least. Not least because I was being accused of plagiarising, but repeated publication of one's work without any editing stipulations can induce a sense of complacency. It had been an unpleasant jolt to my ego. I had hoped Holmes would defend me in this, but as always he remained cold and detached.

"There are only a certain number of ways one can describe someone in a top hat," I mused,

"Nevertheless, if it keeps them happy I shall have you wear a bowler instead."

"NO!" Holmes's voice cut in sharply. "Those are ridiculous looking things!"

"Nonsense, I wear one myself on occasion!"

"Yes, and it is most unbecoming."

"Alright then," I said, with an inward chuckle. "Choose – a bowler or a deerstalker. It's up to you."

"I have no objection to deerstalkers," Holmes said, as he gave a great sigh of relief. "Top hats, bobble hats, deerstalkers, it makes no difference to me…but I refuse to be bowlerised!"


	28. Chapter 28

**WATSON IS SHORT**

"Watson, where are your legs?"

"Well Holmes, you told me not to bring my revolver. So when that mad swordsman came at me I had nothing to defend myself with."

"Oh. Oh dear. Maybe the revolver would have been a good idea after all. Fear not, Watson, for I shall carry you wherever you wish to go!

"We shall continue to work our cases together! It will be just as it used to!"

"What a true friend you are, Watson."

"And you too, Holmes, despite the revolver-thing. ONWARD!"

-/-/-

_Wait – just re-read the prompt again from Poseidon: "Watson is SHOT when Holmes tells him not to bring his revolver."… Ohhhh… _

_And Mrs Pencil, I think you may be right…I am quite enjoying it!_


	29. Chapter 29

_Prompt from Agatha Doyle: Write about a time Holmes and Watson got drunk_

**A VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS**

During the adventure of the Blue Carbuncle it was necessary for me to make some adjustments to the chronicled case in order to protect the reputation of my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes.

The goose club was in fact a highly illegal organisation who would rustle geese from country breeders, kill them and distribute them to its members for a vast annual subscription. Because of the fact that they were always based in public houses the members got drunk a lot (leading to various indiscretions on their part). Therefore they had to frequently move between bars in order to avoid being caught or traced by the police. In tracing the source of the goose with the stone in its crop, we were compelled to visit several public houses before we hit upon the right one. And so as not to draw attention to ourselves, we had to drink something at each one of them.

Since we could not afford to waste any time what with a criminal on the loose, a stone in our care and an innocent man in prison, this led to us consuming no less than twelve pints of beer each, by the end of which, needless to say, we were in no position to continue the search.

Holmes remembers something about luring an unsuspecting passer-by who had arrived too late to buy a goose, back to 221B Baker Street and then spouting some nonsense about feeding the stone down the throat of one before chasing it around town…I struggle to recall the exact details and we had to think something up for the readers, who were clamouring for a 'Christmas Case'. In actual fact the only thing we can both agree on is that when we both became sober we were standing up to our knees in the Thames, with Toby standing on the bank. looking at us as though we had taken leave of our senses. Which, I suppose, we had.


	30. Chapter 30

_From Sui Generis Paroxysm: What's the last thing you threw out that used to mean something to you?_

**THE PARTING **

He may have been a loyal friend to me, and helped me on many of my most notable cases, but having a wife and continuing to live here would have been bad for all of us. I had to let him go.


End file.
